


What Fine Marble

by juanjoltaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Depression, M/M, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juanjoltaire/pseuds/juanjoltaire
Summary: Grantaire is a lonely sculptor who craves one thing above all else: someone to love. One night as he prays to Aphrodite for help, a dream of the beautiful Enjolras guides him to make his greatest masterpiece yet. (my own take on the Greek myth Pygmalion and Galatea)





	What Fine Marble

**Author's Note:**

> This is one I never I thought I would get around to finishing and after almost a year I'm very happy to finally get this out to you. Please leave a comment if you enjoy!

The sculptor was drunk again. The wine would have tasted sweeter were Grantaire not alone, but there he sat at his tiny supper table with only bitter thoughts for company. It wasn’t the shipment of cracked marble he had to send back that morning that upset him, nor the indecisive commissioner who changed her entire order the day before, nor his apprentice falling ill and leaving him short a pair of hands the past week. It was not the stress of his trade that made him pour himself yet another cup of wine. It was his friend Courfeyrac, and the news he brought with him when he stopped by Grantaire’s workshop at closing time that evening. He had found himself a lover.

Ever since their friend Marius had wed, Courfeyrac and Grantaire had taken pride in being unattached and independent, two Athenian adventurers within the confines of the city streets. Men in need of no one and nothing. And yet, Grantaire was only pretending, playing the part of the careless ruffian in Courfeyrac’s presence whenever they went out to dine, or attend the theater, or watch the games. Behind his practiced smile, his heart and his hopes for the future crumbled like brittle stone. Courfeyrac would never have guessed he was hurting, he was never one to pay attention to that sort of thing.

“His name is Jehan,” Courfeyrac mused dreamily, running his fingers over one of the sculptor’s latest works, Apollo reaching out to the transforming Daphne for a tragic, unrequited embrace. 

“Don’t touch,” Grantaire reprimanded sternly as he stared at him in disbelief.

“Hair like a sunset,” Courfeyrac continued, pulling back his hands and gliding over as if he were walking on air. “Eyes green as the sea. And pretty as a maiden, I shan’t be in want of a wife with Je-”

“You always said you didn’t care for love,” Grantaire interrupted shortly.

“I didn’t,” Courfeyrac said sincerely with a mischievous smile, placing his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders. “Not until it found me. Come, you must meet him.” 

Grantaire managed to shoo him from the shop instead, citing a need to clean, and warily nodding at suggestions of a meeting the following day. But Courfeyrac’s news had stung, and Grantaire fell deep into thought as he shut the door behind him, taking up the broom to sweep the studio floor of dust and debris. 

Grantaire cared for love, very much. He had always wanted it, even when he had nodded along in agreement during Courfeyrac’s tirade not long after Marius’s wedding. _“Love is a selfish indulgence! Only those with weak hearts close themselves off from the rest of the world… from their friends!”_ Courfeyrac had certainly been hurt when lovestruck Marius left him behind. Now Grantaire was the one envious and angry, with Courfeyrac flaunting his sudden change of heart. “ _I_ wanted this, not you,” he grumbled, with no one to hear him but Apollo and Daphne as he locked the workshop door from within. Courfeyrac was wrong about love. If love was only for the weak, it would have found Grantaire's broken soul long ago.

Was it fair of him, he wondered as he crossed into the cramped living quarters on the side of his shop, to blame Courfeyrac for his lack of understanding? Courfeyrac was better looking, he had no trouble turning heads, or feeling wanted. But Grantaire had never been given a second glance, never caught anyone’s eye, and he feared more than anything that it would always be that way. After all, he would only grow older from here on out, and never more handsome.

His thoughts grew darker as he washed down his modest supper of cheese and bread with the wine, cup after cupful streaming down his throat while he sat contemplating his new position as the odd man out. He was the last one left, single and alone. He drunkenly imagined himself as the Apollo he had been sculpting all day, desperately reaching for Daphne only to find her inert, inanimate, and unfeeling. _No wonder it all came to me so easily,_ he mused, leaning back in his chair. _It is only the story of my life._ Out the window, he watched down the hill as the shopkeepers and carts dwindled away in the city below, the last of the daylight fading from the streets. Then the stars came out to shine, twinkling beside a luminous moon, and a nighttime quiet fell over the sculptor’s little shop.

Grantaire blinked, his eyes red, and reached for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table for a bite of dessert. He sliced an apple onto his plate, then reached for a pomegranate to do the same. He split it in two, the blood red juice seeping over his fingers. _Aphrodite’s favorite,_ he couldn't help but remind himself, and suddenly he hurt anew, losing his appetite. He set the halves down, contemplating the goddess of love, whose favors could not be spared for Grantaire. _I prayed for your help for so long... Why give your blessing to him, and not me?_ Courfeyrac, he knew, had never prayed once.

He let out a sigh, staring down at the fruit he no longer wanted, ashamed of his wastefulness. It was perfectly ripe, the pomegranate seeds glistening like jewels in the lamplight. _But...perhaps..._ he pondered slowly, as he studied the plate longer, _..._ she _might appreciate a gift? Perhaps...if I gave her one more offering, if I prayed just one more time..._ Deep down, he knew it was useless, it was the wine responsible for such a desperate attempt, for he had given up begging for her favor months ago. But with Courfeyrac so recently blessed, he couldn’t help but fixate on the idea. Was it not better at least try and offer her the food anyway, before tossing it out? And after all, he realized through his clouded thoughts, was today not _her_ weekday, the Day of Aphrodite?

Resigning himself, he stood up, though not without difficulty. He stumbled a little on his way to the corner of the kitchen, where a set of shelves made for a pantry. He took down the honey pot, and returned to his plate to drizzle its contents onto the fruit. If he was going to make an offering, he would do it right, sacrificing a little more expense to sweeten the deal. Adding a finishing touch, he plucked the only flower that sat in the clay vase by the window, and set it as a garnish by the honeyed fruit, its red petals complementing the pomegranate and apple peel.

With his offering prepared, he left it there and picked up the oil lamp, carrying it with him as he walked back into the darkened shop and turned towards the storage room. Inside were leftovers, scraps, and samples of his work, and he raised the light to illuminate a shelf of miniature statuettes, their intricate shadows thrown against the back wall. He nudged aside a little Hermes, and barely caught a falling satyr in time as his hand passed drunkenly over his creations. Setting it upright once more, he continued his search, and then nestled in the back row between a tiny Athena and Ares, he spotted her. There was Aphrodite, her diminutive feet carved into a base of lapping waves, a preliminary sample for what eventually became the centerpiece of a courtyard fountain. He picked her up gently, this miniature counterpart fitting easily in his grasp, and returned to his quarters.

He paused to retrieve the fruit, spilling some oil from the lamp in his attempt to keep the plate upright, and with hands full he climbed the narrow wooden stairway to the bedroom above. There he arranged the objects on the low table beside his bed, setting the plate in front of the Aphrodite statuette and rotating it just so, her small form aglow in the light of the lamp. Then he removed the sandals from his feet and knelt before the altar, sitting on his heels on the woven rug.

“Oh, Aphrodite,” Grantaire began, and even with all the wine, he felt the embarrassment of addressing an empty room, hearing his voice waver so weakly. “Great Aphrodite,” he started again, louder this time. “I know I have not spoken to you in some time, and for that I beg forgiveness.” He bowed his head in prostration, nearly to the floor. “But…if you can find it within your divine heart to look upon me now, please hear my prayer. I don't ask for much. I don’t ask for the… the most beautiful, or most clever, or most talented lover. I don’t ask for obedience, or grace, or strength. I don’t ask for anyone or anything in particular. I only ask that… that you send anyone at all. Send me one who will love me, who _can_ love me. Even for a night, even for a moment. If you can bestow your gifts upon Cou…” He swallowed thickly, realizing his eyes were filling with tears. “Courfeyrac, then know I am waiting here for you, too. I will listen, I will learn, I will do anything you wish. I am your humble servant, only please, let me know love. I cannot keep living without it. I am lonely… I am lost…” The tears gently fell from his cheeks, disappearing into the rug below. “I am so willing to love… so willing… and so alone...” 

When Grantaire fell quiet, he was left with the sound of his breaths, shallow at first, punctuated now and then by a drunken hiccup. But as he calmed, his breathing grew deep and rhythmic, steady like the sea. His mind emptied, his tears dried. And then all was black.

It slowly came to him that he heard gulls, and the nearby sound of waves crashing on a beach. He felt sand beneath him, and as he raised his head, opening his eyes, he saw the ocean stretching out before him, and the sky above a blazing orange. He was alone, but out in the water, he saw a disturbance beyond the breaking surf. He got to his feet, his toes sinking into the sand, and stepped closer, walking down the beach to the shoreline. He shaded his eyes from the brilliant sky, and out in the water, bubbling merrily, a small whirlpool began to form amidst a bed of sea foam. Grantaire watched transfixed, and his eyes widened then, as he saw something… some _one_ rising slowly from the center.

 _Aphrodite,_ Grantaire gasped silently, the distant memory of praying to her coming back to mind as the golden head appeared. But the hair was shorter than he expected, curls cropped at the neck, and as the figure continued to rise, he saw no breasts. Instead, he saw the body of a young man, a mix of angles and curves, naked save for a laurel crown upon his head, and the seafoam streaming down his body. His skin was pearlescent, iridescent, at first shining white, then pink, then as golden as his hair, which swayed and rippled around his head as if he were still beneath the surface of the sea. As he stepped forward, wading through the waves towards the shore, he sparkled and shone like sunlight on the water, like Apollo, like Helios, yet with the feminine grace of Aphrodite herself. Grantaire had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and though he felt as if he could fall down and weep at the sight, he found he could only stare.

“Are you the sculptor?” the golden stranger asked, stopping at the water’s edge, his feet in the surf. His voice was at once both soft and strong, resonating in Grantaire's ears, as lyrical as any music and clear as a bell, even over the sound of the sea.

“I am,” Grantaire answered in disbelief, his eyes feasting on the sight before him. Giving into instinct, he gathered up his tunic and let it fall to the ground, baring himself to the other to match his naked form. 

The young man’s lips twitched, showing the hint of a smile, the rest of him perfectly composed. “Am I what you desire?”

Grantaire only stared, dumbstruck. Was this Aphrodite’s gift, was this creature meant for him? Surely not, for he had not asked for the most beautiful. And yet… “Yes. _Yes_.” He drew nearer, even though the glow emanating from the body before him was nearly blinding.

“Am I worth living for?” the boy continued, his piercing gaze locked on the sculptor. “Am I what you seek?”

Grantaire nodded slowly, as if in a trance. He loved him on sight, with hardly a word exchanged, and his heart ached in his chest, already fearing this would all disappear in an instant. Stepping onto the wet sand at the water’s edge, he reached out to him, wanting to touch his golden skin if only for a moment. But as his hands stretched outward, just as he was about to graze his form with the tips of his fingers, they met something hard and unyielding. In that instant, the light died, and darkness fell.

Grantaire gasped, frightened. And yet, he could still hear the waves, the sand still beneath his toes. As his eyes adjusted, he realized the boy remained before him, though his divine aura was gone. His hair no longer floated about his head, tousling gently in the cold breeze instead. Grantaire's hands cautiously rose once more to find what held him back, and there, invisible to the eye, a magic barrier stood between them at the water’s edge.

“You must do something for me,” the stranger said in the darkness. There was something different in his voice now, an urgency, a concern.

“Anything,” Grantaire promised, ready to pledge his devotion.

“You must come find me, and set me free.”

Grantaire stared in confusion at the shadowy figure, so close and unreachable, though he quickly nodded his assent. “I-I will, but where? How?”

“Will you remember what I look like?” the boy asked, seeming uncertain if he could trust him to do so.

“I could never forget,” Grantaire replied sternly, and knew he spoke the truth. 

“Then I will be waiting for you. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Grantaire echoed eagerly. “Tell me your name.”

Suddenly, the boy surged forward as if there was nothing to hold him back, no barrier at all. Grantaire felt his naked body fall against his own, hands draping around his neck, and the stranger turned his head to whisper in his ear. _“Enjolras,”_ he sighed, his warm breath sending a shiver down Grantaire's spine.

Grantaire raised his hands to embrace him, attempting once more to feel him beneath his fingers, yet as his arms closed in he felt nothing but air, and everything was gone.

Grantaire woke up in a heap on the rug, daylight shining in his eyes. He blinked, wincing, and noting his discomfort he realized he had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the altar. He exhaled deeply, a disappointed huff, and closed his eyes again, wanting to return to his dream of the boy on the beach. Where had it left off? He tried to conjure the feeling again, the last moment, longing to remember how his skin had felt against his own. Warm? No, it was cool, for though he had shone like the sun, he had emerged from the sea. Fire from water, snuffed in the darkness. _Enjolras,_ Grantaire remembered. _His name was Enjolras._

Though some of the details were still foggy, the words they exchanged unclear, he could not forget his face, so rare in beauty he could only have been dreamed up. Humans like that did not exist outside the mind, although now that he dwelled upon it, perhaps he hadn’t been human in his mind either. There was an ethereal presence about him, and though he had put his arms around Grantaire, he had been untouchable by Grantaire's hand.

 _Even in my own dreams, I am denied the chance for love,_ he thought with a bitter laugh, unsurprised at the revelation. He opened his eyes once more to the sunlight, resigning himself to the waking world, and pushed up off the floor to sit up. Though his head should have ached from the wine, he felt curiously light, a fact he was grateful for as he stretched out his limbs. He ran a hand through his hair, gave his head a scritch, and made to stand up, thinking he would take the offering downstairs for disposal. But upon seeing the plate, his mouth fell open.

The fruit was gone, the plate empty save for a single dry pomegranate seed. Grantaire cocked his head, staring blankly. Offerings were in essence symbolic, a sacrifice from one's own table to be tossed out once the message had come across. Never in his life had he seen an offering simply disappear. Had he left the shutters open? He glanced over to the window, if a bird might have gotten in, but the wooden shutter was clasped in place. He then looked to the floor, theorizing that he had drunkenly eaten it himself before falling asleep, but everything was gone, the flower, the rind, and nothing remained save for that single seed.

Grantaire wasn't entirely a skeptic when it came to the gods, but he was far too cynical to believe that Aphrodite herself would come to visit him, let alone hear his prayers after all this time. _If not her then…who else? A thief in the night?_ But there was nothing amiss in his bedroom, with everything as he left it aside from the empty plate. Puzzled, he finally straightened and picked up the plate, the seed rolling idly around on it as he descended the stairs. He set the plate down in the kitchen, and swept the seed into his hand, about to dispose of it when he paused, staring down at the little speck in his palm.

If Aphrodite herself really _had_ eaten of his fruit, then a single seed left behind was no accident. But what could it mean? Proof that the offering had been accepted, or something more? Was he meant to do something with this seed? He wanted to believe he was being sent a sign, though he didn't understand what it could possibly be telling him. Then again, he supposed there was really only one thing to do with a seed, whether ordinary or not, and that was to sow it. He stood in the center of the room, pondering his sanity, still disbelieving that anything had occurred at all as he stared at the seed in his palm. Then, closing his fist determinedly, he turned and pushed open the door to the backyard. 

Out in the small garden enclosed by a stone wall was the well, and a stable for Mabeuf, the mule who helped transport the sculptures to his customers. Grantaire took up a spade and found a bare patch of earth several paces from the well that seemed an appropriate place to plant a tree. After digging a modest hole, he dropped the mysterious seed inside and buried it beneath the soil. Then he drew some water from the well and poured it upon the overturned dirt, patting it down for good measure. With the simple task completed, he fed the mule and headed back inside, putting the whole strange affair from his mind. 

Today was Cronus’s Day and the shop would be closed, so Grantaire was free to go out and enjoy himself. Courfeyrac had asked the previous evening if he would come out to meet Jehan, and Grantaire decided that after a night of sulking he was ready to do so. As he sat over his breakfast at the dining table, he tried to picture what Jehan might look like. _Hair like a sunset..._ But instead, Grantaire could only conjure up that beautiful face from his dream, with golden hair aglow, shining like a god. No matter how pretty Jehan was, he couldn’t look like that. _At least I do not have to share him with anyone,_ Grantaire consoled himself. _Enjolras is only in my mind._

As he finished up his bread and honey though, he suddenly remembered another piece of his dream. The words Enjolras had said, the command he gave. _Come find me. I will be waiting. Tomorrow._ Grantaire's hand froze over his lips, his heart skipping a beat. _What if....no,_ He shook his head, immediately pushing down the hopes that were rising inside him. _What if,_ they came back insistently, _this is the message?_ If Aphrodite had planted the seed of love, and something… someone… _Enjolras_ was out there for Grantaire to find? And the seed left behind was a sign that it was all real, that his dream was no dream at all. That the love of his life was out there right now, waiting to be found...

He realized his hands were shaking as his mind raced, his lips curving up in a smile. _Do not put your faith in dreams, or the kindness of gods,_ chastised a voice in the back of his mind, but he paid no attention, and pushed back from his chair. He would not let his cynicism take this hope away from him. He ran upstairs, changed into a clean chiton, and attempted to comb his wild curls. Accepting that he couldn’t quite tame his locks, he gave up and tied on his sandals, and heart beating with mounting excitement, he left the shop, hurrying down the hill.

Where to begin? The agora. The marketplace was buzzing with activity, people milling about the stalls and shops, faces everywhere. Grantaire pushed his way through the crowd, looking from one to another as he searched eagerly for the boy from his dream. He knew it would not be hard to spot him, for Grantaire could not miss such beauty among the common folk. He wended his way past the olive oil seller, the fruit stand, the stall selling goat cheese and milk, sidestepping the busy shoppers and merchants. He passed by flute players and dancers, busking for coins, and a small group gathered around a man who carried a basket of puppies. Grantaire couldn't help but smile as he made his way around them, checking each face as he went. The wine seller called out to him, recognizing a frequent customer, but Grantaire shook his head with a wave and moved on, his eyes searching distractedly ahead of him.

He travelled down the street, passing the weavers, the jewelers, the smiths. He stopped while a flock of sheep escorted by their shepherd trotted across his path, and paused to get his bearings, looking over each shoulder in his quest for a golden head among the flow of pedestrians. But there was none with hair like Enjolras, and he made it to the end of the agora with no luck. Not to be deterred, he decided to make his way to where the next big crowd would be found that day.

A philosopher’s podium was built not far away, and heading over Grantaire found it occupied, a healthy amount of listeners gathered around. _“Follow the stars, follow your dreams,”_ the voice on the podium called out as Grantaire weaved through the bystanders, attempting a casual air as he inspected each face in the crowd. _“The heart knows better than the mind, it is the only part inside of you that can find your true destiny!”_ Grantaire was hardly listening as he searched, eyes darting back and forth in search of the golden hair, though there was none in sight.

 _Follow your dreams…_ his mind echoed, the words finally sinking in as he emerged from the crowd, heart drumming in his chest once more. _I'm trying._ Where to go next? He set off across the paving stones in the direction of the stadium across the way, where in an hour or so there would be a chariot race, and the spectators were already starting to gather. But as he passed by a fountain in the square, a voice called out to him.

“Grantaire!”

He turned, and saw Courfeyrac, along with Marius and his wife Cosette, sitting on a bench beside the fountain. A stranger accompanied them. _Jehan,_ Grantaire realized as he spotted the red hair. 

“Glad to see you out and about this morning!” Courfeyrac called out again, beckoning him over. “I honestly didn't think you'd accept the invitation!” 

Grantaire smiled guiltily as he joined them, having forgotten about the plan to meet Jehan. “I'm out on a mission today, Courfeyrac,” he explained, nodding to Marius and Cosette, and turned to extend his hand to the newcomer. “You must be Jehan.” 

Jehan nodded and clasped hands with him. “Grantaire,” he replied easily.

“What mission?” Courfeyrac asked casually, though his eyes were curious to see what Grantaire thought of his new man.

Grantaire released Jehan’s hand as he turned to Courfeyrac. “I'm going to find the love of my life today,” he announced. The absurdity of the statement made him grin. 

Cosette let out a melodious laugh, ringing out along the sound of the splashing fountain. “An admirable ambition!” she exclaimed. “I never knew you were a romantic, Grantaire.”

“Neither did I,” added Courfeyrac.

“Seems there is a lot about each other we never knew, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire admitted.

“Have you been searching all morning?” Jehan asked curiously.

Grantaire nodded. “No luck yet.”

“Will you know when you see her?” Marius asked.

“Him,” Grantaire gently corrected. “I saw him in a dream. I know his name. It's Enjolras.”

“I've...never met anyone named Enjolras,” Cosette shook her head, though she looked at Grantaire in wonder, mystified by the prophecy.

“Nor me,” Marius shook his head, and Courfeyrac and Jehan echoed the sentiment.

“I suppose you can keep a lookout for me,” Grantaire allowed, though he wanted to be the one to find him. “He's blonde, and the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.”

“Creature? He is human, isn’t he?” Courfeyrac joked with a lopsided smile, amused by the whole situation. “Did he say where you’d find him?”

“No, not that I remember. Otherwise I would have gone straight there. All I can remember is that he asked me to find him.”

“Well, where were you in the dream?” Jehan pressed.

Grantaire paused, taken aback at such a simple conclusion. “The… the beach…” he said slowly, eyes widening. He had thought that finding Enjolras was meant to be some sort of quest, that he would need to find him out in the fray of Athenian city life, a puzzle waiting to be solved. But what if he was waiting in the same spot by the sea, counting on Grantaire to have drawn such a simple conclusion?

“Then let us go,” Courfeyrac offered. “We can all go, it's not a bad way to spend the day, after all.”

Grantaire beamed. “Really? Were you not on your way to the races just now?”

“Not anymore. This is a better plan,” he stated plainly, and the others nodded in agreement. “Marius can get you to the beach far faster than on your own two feet.”

“Come,” Marius said, gesturing for them all to follow. “I'll have the carriage readied as soon as we get to my house.”

Soon the five of them were trundling down the road towards the sea in Marius’s open carriage, lunch provisions packed alongside them. It was a beautiful day for such a trip, with the sky perfectly clear, and a gentle breeze ruffling their hair. Grantaire idly watched as Courfeyrac rode with his arm around Jehan, and blushed when he was caught looking.

“Grantaire,” Jehan spoke up, gazing back. “Courfeyrac tells me you’re a sculptor.”.

“That I am,” Grantaire replied.

“You must be talented,” Jehan continued. “I hear it’s a very difficult trade. One mistake, and there goes all your hard work.”

“Grantaire is beyond talented,” Courfeyrac vouched. “Ever since I’ve known him he’s made excellent sculptures.”

“Do you enjoy it?” asked Jehan.

“I’ve always loved to create,” Grantaire said softly. “Turning a block of marble into the human form... there is nothing quite like the feeling of seeing your work come to life.”

“How romantic,” Jehan smiled, turning to Courfeyrac. “Perhaps you could commission a statue of us,” he said to him, tracing a finger over his cheek.

“Never,” Courfeyrac answered playfully, catching his hand. “I would be too jealous of another man learning the shapes of your body, even if it is Grantaire. No offense, dear friend,” he added, winking at Grantaire. 

“None taken,” Grantaire said, with a knowing shake of his head. To his surprise, he found his envy had faded away, now that he had something more important preoccupying his mind. It felt almost as if he already had a lover of his own, he was so certain he would find Enjolras. There was no need to dwell on Courfeyrac’s good fortune, when his own turn seemed so near, and for the rest of the journey he kept his eyes on the road ahead, eagerly awaiting their destination.

They arrived at the beach by midday. As soon as the shoreline was in view, Grantaire sat up in the carriage, eyes scanning the coast for a lone figure. But the beach seemed abandoned, and as Marius halted the horse, Grantaire jumped out of the carriage as alert as a hunting dog, heading to the water’s edge. As far as he could see around him, they were alone. No swirling whirlpools, no beds of sea foam. 

The others followed after him, carrying food and blankets from the carriage to set down on the sand. “Grantaire come join us,” Cosette called. “We’re about to have lunch.” 

But Grantaire shook his head, already starting off down the sand. “I'm going to have a look down that way first,” he announced, pointing along the beach, far too preoccupied to think about eating. 

He took a long, determined walk down the shoreline, hoping at any moment Enjolras would appear. There was no sign of him though, not even footprints in the sand, and Grantaire made it all the way to the end of the beach, where the sand turned to rocks and the land rose up in cliffs, without seeing anyone at all. He turned, and traced his path back to the others.

When he returned, they had finished their lunch and were exploring the sand for shells, and disrobing to go swimming. But Grantaire walked past them.

“Grantaire?” Marius called after him.

“Going the other way now,” he explained, and continued onward.

“Let me go with you!” Courfeyrac insisted.

“No, I'll be fine on my own,” Grantaire said quickly over his shoulder, and went on his way.

He walked for a long time. This side of the beach did not end in cliffs, but stretched out farther and farther into the distance. At one point he spotted a lone figure on the horizon and sprinted toward it, but found as he drew closer it was only another stranger visiting the beach, and not the golden boy he sought. But he kept going, on and on, his limbs beginning to grow heavy, until he realized with a pang in his heart that he had gone too far, and if he did not turn around and go back, his friends might leave the beach without him. He had come all this way with no Enjolras in sight, and reluctantly, defeatedly, he turned in the sand and followed his footsteps back to where he started.

When he finally arrived, his friends were idling in the shallows. Grantaire silently joined them, pulling off his tunic and sitting down in the water, the waves gently lapping at his chest. Courfeyrac swam over, and Grantaire knew his friend could sense his frustration and disappointment, if it wasn't already obvious with the lack of Enjolras in tow.

“I believe there is someone out there for you, Grantaire, if you want to find somebody.” Courfeyrac put a wet hand on his shoulder in sympathy. “But maybe… maybe his name isn't Enjolras, maybe he's not this blonde beauty you saw in your head. Sometimes dreams are just dreams, that's all.”

“I don't know,” Grantaire said, though his mind was beginning to agree. “It seemed so real. I was willing to believe. I made an offering to Aphrodite and-”

“Since when have you put your faith back in the gods?” he said with a laugh that seemed to puncture what little hope Grantaire had left.

 _This morning,_ he would have said, but that faith was already drying up, even as he sat in the waters that had supposedly birthed Aphrodite herself. _At least, I wanted to._ instead of speaking up though, he merely sighed, and hung his head. 

“If you searched as diligently as you have today, without a face or a name in mind, I'm sure you'd find something you like out there,” Courfeyrac said, patting him, and slowly swam back to Jehan.

But Courfeyrac didn't understand. Grantaire had seen things he liked before, that was never the problem. It was finding someone that would reciprocate that affection that gave him trouble, someone that wasn't repelled by him, that would accept his meager income, his crooked smile, his calloused hands. The idea that there was someone made just for him, that would love him from the moment their eyes met, seemed a childish notion now, the more he dwelled on it, and he hated himself for diving so willingly into such a fantasy.

Still…

As the sun began its descent, afternoon passing into evening, the sky turned a brilliant orange, just as in his dream. Grantaire raised his head, heart beating anxiously with the realization, and once again grew alert, even as Cosette and Marius folded up the blankets to leave. Would Enjolras finally appear now, after a day spent searching in vain? Would he walk out of the sea right here before his eyes, just like-

“Grantaire! We have to be getting back now,” Marius called, sounding as if he had been trying to get Grantaire's attention for some time.

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder, his friends straightening their clothes and waiting expectantly, then looked back out on the water. His eyes darted back and forth as a sense of panic welled up within him, his mind racing with uncertainty. 

Courfeyrac walked back down the beach to the water, and gently pulled Grantaire up from the shallows, his hand under Grantaire’s arm as he stood him up. “Come, my friend,” he urged softly. “You are still dreaming. That’s enough.”

Grantaire let out a breath, wanting to protest and finding he could not say anything at all, frozen in place as his heart sunk down with the setting of the sun. 

“You haven't eaten anything yet, have you?” Courfeyrac continued softly. “We’ll get you something in the carriage.” He helped Grantaire dress again, pulling his chiton over his wet body, and picked up his sandals for him. Then he took him by the arm, and led him away, Grantaire allowing it to happen even as he turned his head to look desperately back to the water’s edge. But there was nothing there, only the sea calmly lapping at the shore.

 _...How stupid am I?_ Grantaire chided himself, finally coming out of his trance as he took his sandals back from Courfeyrac and climbed into the carriage. _To believe a boy would just appear from the ocean, as if he were living beneath it? Such magic is only a myth._ He tied on his shoes and leaned back on the seat as the carriage pulled away, stealing a few last glances at the sea before the beach disappeared from sight.

“Here,” Courfeyrac said, handing over an apple, and though Grantaire took it, he merely clutched it anxiously in his hands.

Would he still hold out hope that Enjolras was out there _somewhere?_ The day itself was not over yet. But in the coming dark, it would be harder to search at night. He thought of the dream again, of Enjolras shrouded in darkness, urging Grantaire to find him. _Where are you?_ he thought desperately. _Please, help me find you..._

“Grantaire,” Cosette said, placing a maternal hand on his arm. 

“Hm?” he looked up, meeting her eyes as the carriage bounced along down the earthen road.

“Marius’s grandfather is holding a dinner party tonight. If you like, I can ask around for those who have daughters of marrying age.”

“Or sons,” Courfeyrac suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Sons who've come of age. Perhap there might be-”

“No. It's alright,” Grantaire said with a simple shake of his head. “I doubt anyone at that party would want a poor sculptor for a son in law.”

Cosette tightened her lips and lowered her head in sympathy, knowing Grantaire spoke the truth. But Grantaire felt no loss of opportunity, for his thoughts were only for Enjolras. Where else could he look? Where might he be found, now that night was falling all around them? Should he simply jump from the carriage, and return to the sea in hopes that he might still-

Suddenly, Grantaire felt something stir within him. The apple fell from his hands, and rolled under the seat of the carriage as they jostled along. “Stop,” he said out loud, standing up shakily in the moving carriage. “Stop!” he cried again at Marius, throwing a leg over the side of the vehicle to the alarm of his friends. He was halfway out of the carriage when Marius managed to reign in the horse.

“What are you doing!?” he yelled, bewildered as the horse whinnied indignantly.

Grantaire dropped down onto the dusty road, feeling a pulse in his chest that was not just a simple heartbeat. It was a tug, like a fishing line reeling him in, telling him where to go. Directly to the left of the carriage, off the side of the road, was the quarry by the sea, from where he ordered his marble. Helplessly drawn, he walked forward towards the site, following the magnetic pull inside his chest. _He's here,_ Grantaire thought in wonder.

At the front of the quarry was the building where the tradesmen filled out orders and made their arrangements. There beside it, a new shipment of marble blocks was waiting to be loaded onto carts for tomorrow's deliveries. He walked right past the men taking stock, past the towering stacks and loading equipment, and found himself drawn closer, and closer, to the center of the quarry’s upper yard. With each step he took. his heart beat as loud and steady as a drum, drowning out everything else around him. The edges of his vision seemed to blur, for the only thing that mattered lay directly before him, slowly coming into view. It was a single block of marble standing alone in the dirt, unnoticed by all but Grantaire. He could not take his eyes off of it, its pale surface gleaming in the last golden light of the sun setting over the sea, and it called to him, drawing him in, his heart pounding louder in his ears with each step forward. And then he was there, standing in front of it, close enough to touch, and as he reached out, grazing the smooth, hard surface with his fingertips, the urgent, guiding pulse within him, all around him, abruptly stopped.

He ran his hand gently across the block, malleable and raw from the quarry. It was pure white, free from veins, cracks, and imperfections, and beneath his hand its crystals were so small he felt no grit or grain. “What fine marble,” he whispered to himself, his eyes staring in wonder. It stood taller than Grantaire, overshadowing him as he slowly walked around it, hands trailing over the surface in appreciation. He worked with the material every day and yet he had neither seen nor touched a more spectacular canvas. Somehow he knew, as he came around to its front side again and looked up in wonder, touching its cool surface, that it had a power of its own, and it had called him here for a reason. 

And then, suddenly, with realization that came like a splash of cold water, he understood.

_...Find me, and set me free..._

“Hey, what are you- oh!” a voice interrupted in confusion. “Is that you, Grantaire?”

Grantaire turned his head, his hands still pressed against the marble. He recognized one of the stock boys who delivered to his shop standing behind him.

“I'm sorry about the mixup,” the boy said nervously, apologizing for the damaged marble he had attempted to deliver two days ago. “We’ll be sending you a new supply tomorrow, I promise.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, shaking his head dismissively. “I'm not here about that.” He looked back to the raw marble beneath his hand, a bittersweet smile upon his lips. “I am here for this. You must sell me this block of marble,” he informed him.

“T-this one?” the boy asked. “But this is for another shipment. It’s going to-”

“Consider it an advance on tomorrow's order. I'll pay double the price of the whole shipment, if you deliver this exact piece to me tonight.”

“T-tonight?” The boy was dumbfounded. 

“Double the price,” Grantaire reminded him.

“Double the...well, I mean...of course, sir,” he acquiesced.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, patting the delivery boy’s arm gratefully, for he had been ready to triple the price. “Now please, if you would send it on its way, right away.”

The boy nodded, and rushed off to talk to his superior. Grantaire’s gaze fell back to the marble, as he breathed out a sigh of relief. He inhaled again with a sharp gasp though, startled as he felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around..

“Grantaire?” It was Courfeyrac. “What are you _doing!?_ Business at this hour? They have a party to get to, we must be going! Are you coming back with us or not?” he demanded in exasperation.

“Yes, I…I...” Grantaire looked over his shoulder, worried to leave his precious marble, and spotted the delivery boy consulting with the foreman, pointing hurriedly in his direction. The man looked bewildered at the proposal, giving him an odd look, but Grantaire gave a friendly wave of assurance, hoping to communicate his consent to such arrangements. Thankfully, the foreman finally nodded, and shooed the delivery boy off to prepare a cart. “I'm so sorry,” Grantaire turned back to Courfeyrac, finally calming once more, and allowed himself to step away from the block. “I am ready now.”

Courfeyrac scolded Grantaire as he led him away from the quarry and back to the carriage. “You ran off like a madman, we had no idea why. Troubles at the shop, Grantaire?”

“No, listen, you must understand…” he began, but trailed off, realizing that the truth would make him sound like a madman indeed. “Y-you’re right. There was some trouble at the shop,” he sighed resignedly, correcting himself. “A bad shipment the other day. It's all sorted now.”

“Well _good._ Marius and Cosette are waiting on you,” Courfeyrac said impatiently.

Grantaire nodded apologetically to them as he climbed back into the carriage. “My sincerest gratitude for your patience. There was something I needed to take care of. I didn’t mean to take up your time.”

“That's alright,” Cosette said politely, though she was relieved to see Grantaire's return. “We’ll still get home in time for the party.”

Grantaire looked back to the dim yard of the quarry as the carriage pulled away, and saw several of the workers helping the delivery boy load his prized marble onto a cart. He watched anxiously, until the quarry was out of sight, before he turned in his seat back to the others.

“Is something wrong, Grantaire?” Cosette pressed.

“No,” Grantaire shook his head, giving her a soft smile. “Nothing is wrong. Only that… I've simply realized that _I_ was wrong, all this time.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes dreams aren't meant to be taken as they are. They might mean something else entirely.” He gently ran his fingers over his palms, feeling the soft white dust the raw marble had left on his hands.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac agreed, his arm draped lazily over Jehan’s shoulder. “Forget the dream. You'll find what you're looking for someday.”

 _No,_ Grantaire thought, as the golden light of the sun finally faded away below the horizon. _I already found what I was looking for._

Once the carriage arrived back at Marius's house, Grantaire said goodbye to his friends, clasped Jehan's hand once more, and parted ways. He slowly walked home under the night sky, tracing a path back to his shop without even glancing at the faces around him on the street. Instead he looked to the stones beneath his feet, and to the stars in the heavens, lost in contemplation over all that had happened that day. When he finally returned home, he sat down on a stool in the darkened shop with an exhausted sigh and waited for his delivery to arrive.

It wasn't long before he straightened, pricking his ears at the sound of hooves clopping up the hill. He sprang off the stool to light a lamp, and rushed outside, waving at the cart lumbering up the road. Aiding the two delivery boys that accompanied his marble, the three of them managed to wheel the heavy block safely off the cart and into the shop. Grantaire verified by lamplight that it was indeed the same perfect marble he had claimed at the quarry, and with a sense of relief he tipped the delivery boys and sent them on their way.

Alone once more, he set the lamp on the floor and stood before the brilliant marble now set in the center of his shop, a towering beauty illuminated by the faint glow of the flame. Grantaire walked up to it, pressing his hands once more to the smooth surface, before he closed his eyes and found himself resting his cheek there too. It was cool, and goosebumps rose on his neck and arms as his skin touched the marble. “Do not worry,” he whispered into the dark. “I will free you soon.”

It all had come to him, every detail of the dream and what it meant, as he stood before that magnificent block of marble at the quarry, as if a spell that clouded his mind had lifted. It was not a seed of love that Aphrodite had given him after all, but a seed of inspiration. _Are you the sculptor?_ Enjolras had asked him first and foremost, for he was seeking the one person who could free him from his confines, a marble barrier that kept him from the outside world. Enjolras was not a human that walked this earth. He was a work of art waiting to be born.

Aphrodite’s gift was this dream, a vision of the most beautiful figure Grantaire could have ever imagined, and it was she who guided him to the perfect material for his creation. _But who are you really, Enjolras?_ he begged to know. _You are someone to her, if she wants me to sculpt your likeness._ Was he Aphrodite’s son? Could Enjolras be another name for Eros? Or was he someone new, the offspring of the goddess of love and the god of light, perhaps, or the god of the sun? No matter who he really was, he was important to Grantaire, for it was not everyday that an artist was touched by divine inspiration.

Grantaire slid down to his knees on the floor, leaning his forehead against the marble reverently with eyes closed. _You will be my masterpiece,_ he promised, knowing that no sculpture before or after would compare. _You will be breathtaking, you will be perfect. And I will make Aphrodite proud._ Maybe then, perhaps, the goddess would finally find it within her favor to grant his one true wish. Until then, he would pledge his heart to his art, and allow himself this one night to mourn the love that was never there to find. 

_At least we will meet again, Enjolras, even if you are only made of stone..._

“...Grantaire?...Grantaire?”

Grantaire opened his eyes, and squinted as sunlight hit his face. He had fallen asleep curled up against the marble block, his knees drawn to his chest. His apprentice was staring at him curiously, having arrived early for work, puzzled to find Grantaire asleep on the workshop floor. “Too much wine last night, Grantaire?” Joly asked. “You even forgot to lock the door.”

“No, not wine this time,” Grantaire shook his head, holding out a hand for assistance as Joly helped him up. “Simply a long day.”

Joly looked up at the fine marble Grantaire had been sleeping against, eyebrows raised. “Did a new shipment come in?”

“No,” Grantaire said again, dismissively. “This one’s a special order. A personal project.”

“Oh,” Joly said, frowning thoughtfully. “Well don't exhaust yourself. There's only so much time one can spend sculpting.”

“And I haven't even started yet,” Grantaire agreed with a chuckle. “But what about you, ready to work again?”

“Hardly a cough now,” Joly answered with a sniff. 

“Good. Well, if you can, get to work on Daphne’s leaves,” he said, pointing to the sculpture he had nearly finished in Joly’s absence. “I’ll go and get ready for the day.” 

Grantaire retreated to his living quarters to wash up, finally getting the scent of saltwater off his body. He changed into a clean chiton and then went out back to feed and water the mule. As he walked over to the well, he stopped, taken aback by what he saw there on the ground. 

Where he had planted the offering seed only yesterday, a long green sprout had appeared pushing through the dirt, the tiniest leaf at its tip. Grantaire didn't know much about gardening and cultivation, but he did know that such growth was implausibly fast for a little seed like that. Unless, of course, that seed was a gift from Aphrodite. Somehow, it seemed like a sign that he had figured out her riddle, that he had done well. Smiling to himself, he retrieved some water and poured it gently over the sprout. “Thank you, goddess,” he whispered to the little plant. “I will not let you down.”

When he returned to the shop, Joly was chipping away beside Apollo and Daphne. The replacement shipment of marble would not be arriving until later that day, which meant Grantaire could not start on a new piece for a few more hours. Not for his clients, anyway. Instead, he sat down at his work table with parchment and charcoal and began to contemplate his personal project. 

_How will Enjolras be posed?_ Putting utensil to paper, he sketched out his lithe form in gestural strokes, drawing the boy from his dream in all sorts of positions and mulling over the possibilities. He had already observed his graceful stance of course, though if he sculpted him seated, he could pull up a chair and sit beside Enjolras for hours, admiring him face to face. Or perhaps he would turn the marble and have Enjolras reclined, Grantaire mused as he etched out the shape of his hips, all angles and curves as he lay on his side. The thought of Enjolras stretched out like a consort made him blush however, and though the idea was tempting, he decided against it.

When he had finished his sketches, the only true answer seemed to be the way Enjolras had presented himself, the way Grantaire had seen him. Standing amidst the waves, hair rippling about his head, looking at once both strong and soft and achingly beautiful. Grantaire would use the marble’s natural height to add a base for him to stand on, a swirl of splashing water and a bed of sea foam, like he had done on the little Aphrodite statuette he had placed beside his offering. With the idea in place, he sketched the final pose from all angles, and solidified his plan. _Hopefully this will please the both of you._ he thought, confident that it would.

By lunchtime, the new marble for his clients had arrived, and while he sent a few blocks into the storage room, he kept one inside the workshop to get started on his newest commission. The client had been indecisive, but she finally settled on a Pegasus sculpture for her daughter’s engagement celebration. Horses were always a precarious subject considering their fragile tapered legs, but given his experience, Grantaire set right to work without fear, satisfied the piece was fetching him a good price.

The afternoon passed by with the gentle tinkling sounds of Joly’s small chisel, and the louder ringing of Grantaire's mallet as he broke into the fresh block of marble to find the animal within. It was the least artful part of the process, and the most laborious, large chunks of marble scattering on the floor. By the end of the day he had sweat dripping down his forehead, sore arms, and what appeared to be a large misshapen lump that would one day become a horse. But his mind had not been focused on the Pegasus all that time, even if his hands had known what to do. With evening approaching, he found himself eager to dismiss Joly, and after a quick supper he returned to the workshop, this time ready to begin his _real_ work.

He pinned the final sketches to a support beam that stood near the pristine block of marble, and brought over his small wooden stepladder to place beside it. Climbing the steps, he ran a hand atop the marble, sweeping off the the thin layer of white mineral dust with care. With one last assessment of his canvas he smiled to himself, a peaceful feeling coming over him, and he knew he was ready for the task ahead. “Let us begin,” he whispered to the empty shop, as he pulled his tools from his belt.

With mallet in hand, Grantaire set his chisel at the top and made the first break in the marble. Its smooth surface cracked and splintered, and he struck again, the marble yielding and allowing itself to be shaped to the sculptor’s desires. He sheared off the block’s sharp corners as shards of marble crumbled and fell, littering the floor beneath the stepladder. Even with muscles sore from a day already spent breaking a new block, he was reinvigorated for his evening project, pushing aside all aches and pains in favor of his divine task. When the sun set he lit several lamps, gathering them around himself and the marble so he could continue to work through the dark of night, seeking out the sacred figure that lay buried within.

“Grantaire?”

He looked down over his shoulder and saw Joly walking in, sunlight streaming through the open door and windows. The lamps had all but burned out. Grantaire blinked, bewildered.

“Have you been up all night at this?” Joly asked incredulously, stepping over the larger chunks of marble at the foot of the ladder as he came over.

“Morning already?” Grantaire asked vaguely. He turned from his work and took one step down the ladder before his knees gave out. Joly rushed in to catch him as he nearly collapsed to the floor. 

“Grantaire!” he exclaimed, his brow fraught with worry. He extracted the tools from Grantaire's hands, setting them on a nearby table, and led him carefully to his living quarters. “You haven't seen your bed in two days,” he scolded. “How do you expect to go on sculpting like this?”

“I don't want to keep him waiting,” Grantaire protested groggily.

“Him? Him who?”

“I mean... _her,_ I mean...the goddess…” his exhaustion seemed to have flooded in all at once.

“C’mon, you,” Joly chided, taking on most of Grantaire's weight as they climbed the stairs together to the bedroom. When Grantaire saw his bed in the corner, he dropped down onto it gratefully. “Don't worry about the shop,” Joly said, untying his sandals for him. “I'll tidy it up. Then I'll do the paintwork to get Apollo and Daphne finished up.”

“And feed Mabeuf,” Grantaire reminded him, eyes already closed. 

“Yes. He will be fed. Sleep well.” He covered Grantaire in a blanket, and left him to go tend the shop. By the time Joly reached the bottom of the stairs, Grantaire was fast asleep.

He did not dream at all, and when he finally woke, it was dark in his bedroom. He sat up, well rested but confused, before he remembered Joly putting him to bed. When he went down to the shop, he found Apollo and Daphne essentially completed, a beautiful collaboration between artist and apprentice, ready to be delivered the next day. Nodding in satisfaction, Grantaire turned to his more pressing project, waiting patiently for its sculptor in the middle of the shop. He lit the lamps, climbed the stepladder, and returned to where he had left off before exhaustion had overtaken him.

That night, the vague marble shape became increasingly familiar, as Grantaire carefully chipped away piece by piece, moving up and down the stepladder. When enough of the excess had been stripped away, he was left with the abstract outline of a human form, a mere suggestion of the pose he had sketched, and seen in his mind’s eye. He switched to a smaller chisel, and returned to the top step to begin the most essential part of his piece, the face. The simple surface that made up the head of the figure soon grew complex, as Grantaire created the indent of a brow, the slope of a nose, the outline of lips. When he carved out the shape of a chin, and the line of the jaw, he cupped his hand around it, fitting its shape in his hand. He felt the roughness left by the chisel, like facets of a jewel, but with time, with care, he would recreate those beautiful, memorable features.

He carved in the spheres of the eyes beneath the brow, the curving shells of the ears, the curling, tousled locks of hair, the slender shape of the neck, and by the end of the second night he had what was most certainly a promising beginning to his divine commission. Joly smiled approvingly at Grantaire’s work when he arrived that morning, despite his dismay at finding his master had stayed up the whole night once again. But Grantaire had slept long the day before, and kept himself awake to work on the Pegasus for the next several hours. At noon, they loaded the completed Apollo and Daphne onto the wagon pulled by Mabeuf, and together they drove down the hill to deliver it to the commissioner’s residence.

Upon returning, Grantaire unlocked the coffer inside the shop, and extracted three silver drachma. He went back out to Joly, who was unhooking Mabeuf from the wagon, and pressed the coins into Joly's hand. “For your help and your excellent work,” he said with a gentle smile. 

Joly stared at the bonus in his palm. “A-are you sure?” he asked nervously.

“Of course. You're an asset to me, Joly. And you're going to make an excellent sculptor.”

Joly beamed with pride and nodded, tucking the coins safely away, then led Mabeuf back to his stable while Grantaire returned to the shop. A few minutes later, Joly stuck his head through the backdoor. “Grantaire,” he called. “I didn't know you planted a tree.”

“Hmm?” Grantaire intoned absently, getting up to see what he was on about. Out in the yard, where only two days ago had been a small sprout, was a tree sapling, asserting itself in Grantaire's back garden. He gave a sideways smile, bemused by its impossible progress, and put a hand to the back his neck in contemplation. “Well, what do you know…” he said, half to himself. 

“What is it?” Joly asked curiously, examining a leaf off a delicate sprouting branch.

“A pomegranate tree, I imagine,” Grantaire said. “Just thought the shop could use some more…life.” He had no desire to explain further, Joly would hardly have believed him anyway. Grantaire put an arm around his shoulder and gently steered him back inside.

The rest of the afternoon, they worked on the Pegasus as a team, Grantaire teaching his apprentice about the anatomical properties of a horse, and the proper balance of weight for a quadrupedal statue. Then he let Joly take on the task of carving out a tail, while he himself worked on the neck and head. But it was not long before his energy began to flag, his arm slowing down with each tap of the chisel. Finally, he simply stopped, sitting back on the stool with his tools idle in his hands.

“Grantaire,” Joly asked, after a silence. “Why does it keep you up at night?”

“Hm?”

Joly nodded to the center of the shop, where the once pristine marble block was beginning to turn human. “That. You said it was a personal project. Why rush, if there is no one waiting on you to finish?”

Grantaire looked to his project, a fondness in his tired eyes. “Someone is waiting,” he corrected softly, a slight smile on his lips. “A very important client.”

“Oh,” Joly said, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “Who?” But when Grantaire did not reply, he sighed and shook his head. “Whoever it is, I hope they reward you handsomely after all this. It's the least you deserve.”

Grantaire laughed, unsure how to tell his apprentice he had taken on such a task without any payment to come. Or, well, perhaps there _had_ been something after all. “I think I may be paid in pomegranates,” he said to himself in amusement.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Grantaire stood up, setting his tools down on the work table and massaging his sore wrists. “I think you can go home now, Joly,” he told him. “I'm in no condition to sculpt.”

“That’s right,” Joly agreed. “Get some rest. I don’t want to come back tomorrow to find you’ve stayed up the whole night.”

“Don’t worry, Joly,” Grantaire said with an exhausted laugh. “It will only be half the night.”

True to his word, Grantaire went to bed right then in the late afternoon, but found himself rising again at midnight, rested up enough to return to his project. As he carried the lamp downstairs and through the doorway, illuminating the darkened workshop, he saw the sculpture patiently standing there and smiled. “Hello, Enjolras,” he whispered. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He approached, taking up his tools, and climbed the small stepladder. “I could not be with you and leave my apprentice all the work,” he explained. It seemed almost natural, now that most of the facial features were blocked in, to speak to Enjolras, and use his name. “But I am here now.” He took his smallest chisel and went back to the eyes, this time to sculpt them in finer, smoother detail. “Joly is not a sculpter just yet,” he continued softly. “He does not look at a block and see what lays inside before the hammer falls, not yet. In time, he will. I learned long ago that there is already life within each block of marble, waiting to be released. But I don't have to tell _you_ that,” he smiled.

He worked until sunrise, talking all the while as he carefully refined the face, matching it to the one in his memory, with the elegant sloping nose, the noble brow, the softened lips. Grantaire ran a finger over those smooth marble lips, imagining the Enjolras who stood before him on the beach. He was incapable of touching him then, but now that he could, he found him merely hard and cold beneath his fingers, despite the illusion of humanity. “You're beautiful, you know,” he whispered, feeling a dull pain burrowing into his heart, a pain which he promptly ignored. “I'll finish the rest of you soon, I promise. You will be free.”

The term ‘free’ was relative, of course, he thought as he descended the ladder to have his breakfast. He would have to decide where to put Enjolras when all of this was done, and he wasn't about to put his prized piece out in the garden to weather. A beautiful sculpture might look out of place in Grantaire's humble living quarters, but perhaps someday he would be able to afford a nicer home, where he could place Enjolras in front of a window so he could gaze out at the sea. 

_He is a statue, you fool,_ the cynic inside his head scolded. _Have you forgotten so fast?_

 _No,_ Grantaire’s heart answered back. _But he is all I have, and he is everything to me._

Grantaire was to be alone that day, for it was his apprentice’s day off, and without someone to keep him to task on the Pegasus, he went right back to Enjolras. He had no creative focus for anything else, and failed to see fault in his priorities. _Aphrodite is the most important client I have ever had, after all,_ he thought as he mounted the ladder. He continued the face with determination, perfecting each facial feature with his smallest file. The individual hairs of his brows. The curves of his nostrils. The tight corners of his eyes and lips.The hollowed pupils, staring back at the sculptor now with an intensity that arrested him more than once. But Grantaire could not stop to admire his work. He continued onto the hair, now that Enjolras’s beautiful face was near complete. Working painstakingly on each lock and curl, he chipped and scraped away for hours into the evening, until Enjolras's hair flowed delicately in its own intangible breeze off the sea, and Grantaire’s arms were too sore to sculpt any longer. 

He slept deeply that night, and so long into the morning that Joly had to wake him with a pebble on the wooden shutters of his bedroom. Grantaire leaned across the bed and unlatched them, looking down into the street below. “I don't mean to disturb you, sir, but if you remember to lock up, you must remember to let me in, too,” Joly called up sheepishly. 

Grantaire laughed and quickly threw on a tunic before managing to get downstairs to the workshop to unlock the door. “My apologies, dear Joly.”

“No harm done,” Joly said dismissively. He quieted and stopped to stare, first at the untouched Pegasus, then at the painstaking work Grantaire had done on Enjolras’s immaculate face during Joly’s day off. “Wow,” he breathed in awe. “He's magnificent.”

Grantaire grinned broadly at the praise. “You think so?”

“I do,” Joly nodded slowly, taking a tentative step up the ladder to inspect a little closer, looking up at Enjolras's soft face, his expressive eyes, the details in his hair. “You were busy yesterday.”

“Give or take eighteen hours,” Grantaire admitted.

“All of that in one day?” Joly turned to look at him. “You're the one that needs a day off.”

“I have to finish him, Joly,” he said seriously. “I can't stop until I do.”

“But why?” Joly looked back to Enjolras, then at Grantaire again as he stepped back onto the floor. “Surely this mystery client will wait another day or two, if need be.”

“It is hard to explain,” Grantaire shook his head. He truly couldn't even tell himself why he didn't deserve a break. But it wasn't about him, the project was greater than his own mortal needs. He had to see Enjolras completed, no matter what it took out of him. “I just…can't,” he concluded, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. 

“Then let me help you-”

“No,” Grantaire quickly interrupted. “No, this is something I must do alone. But thank you.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “I am glad to have an apprentice cares that about my well being.”

“If only you cared about it, too, Grantaire,” Joly scolded shaking his head.

“I will try,” Grantaire promised. “I will.”

But the following days passed in the same manner as before, Grantaire spending every waking hour in the workshop, adjusting his sleep schedule to fit around his project. He attempted to hide his impatience when he was working beside Joly on the Pegasus, and when new clients visited the shop, he scheduled their orders for much later on down the calendar. He had no desire for anything else, no interest in a break. His body and mind were devoted to the sculpture that stood waiting for him in the middle of the workshop, and every time he was alone again with Enjolras, he would speak to him softly.

“What shall we talk about tonight?” he asked him one evening as he ascended the stepladder, setting to work refining Enjolras’s shoulders and chest, so they would match his smooth, graceful neck. Enjolras remained silent. “I suppose I must pick the topic,” Grantaire joked. “Though you never seem to mind much. Very well.” He bit his lip, thinking as he chiseled away, until a memory surfaced and he spoke again. “When I was a child, my mother took me to see the temples of the gods. I had only heard about the gods in the stories she told me before, but then, when we visited their sanctuaries, I saw them rising above me, their statues standing tall. I was in awe. I thought perhaps the gods had placed those sculptures there, so we would know what they looked like. It did not cross my mind that they were made at the hands of men, for how could humans have made such things? My mother corrected me of course, but it was hard to understand. How could man make the gods? It is _because_ of the gods that we can create, she said. They have blessed us with abilities like their own, and bestow upon us inspiration, and innovation. The sculptors were paying tribute to the gods, using the gift of creativity to honor those that gave it to them.” 

Grantaire lowered his tools, resting his arms for a moment as he looked at Enjolras. The marble face gazed back at him, silent. “I suppose that's when I decided I wanted to be a sculptor, too. Hearing her tell me I had the gift of creativity inside me, that my own hands could create something meaningful, changed me. And you,” he said, raising a hand to cup Enjolras's smooth cheek. “You will be, and will always be, my most meaningful creation.”

As the nights passed, Enjolras became more and more realized, more human every day. Arms and hands appeared with slender fingers gently spread as if he might raise them up and reach out at any moment. Grantaire took those hands in his own, feeling their shape and imagining what it might feel like were they to clasp him back. He refined them carefully, creating knuckles and fingernails, and lines in his palms, every lifelike detail. He knelt on a step of the ladder, tools working away, with his face drawn so close he could easily kiss his hand. And then, on a whim, he did.

“You've gotten so pale,” Joly noticed the next morning, shaking his head. “Grantaire, sir, your lips have gone white.”

Grantaire quickly rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Marble dust,” he laughed nervously, before wiping at his cheeks for good measure.

Joly shook his head, examining him closer. “It's not just that. You look feverish. When is the last time you've gone farther outside than the well?”

Grantaire thought back, realizing that the only time had had gone out since acquiring Enjolras's block of marble was to aid in the delivery of Apollo and Daphne. Since then he had been sending Joly to fetch food from the agora in his stead, and had no need to leave for anything else. He shook his head dismissively. “I am fine,” he insisted. He gestured to the Pegasus. “There's work to be done here, and once I am finished with the other,” he said, his eyes moving to Enjolras, “then I will go out and celebrate.”

“That could be many days away,” Joly protested. “When will you allow yourself to relax? I haven't even seen you drink as of late. Not that I’m complaining, but-”

“I cannot sculpt if I am drunk. There's nothing wrong with that,” Grantaire shrugged. “My friends would say I'm better off for it.”

“They haven't seen you like this,” Joly grumbled. “You haven't gone out to see them at all.”

“They'll understand,” Grantaire said, carrying a stool over to the Pegasus. “Now hush and come here, let me teach you how to sculpt a wing.”

It was almost a relief when Joly left that evening, and the subsequent evenings that followed. All he wanted was time to work on Enjolras alone, something he felt he could not do in the presence of his apprentice. There was an intimacy he had formed with his sculpture he couldn't quite explain, but it was all the more present as he continued his way down Enjolras's waist to sculpt his hips, and form and tone the muscles of his posterior, ending the arch of his slender back. Grantaire, who no longer needed his stepladder to work on Enjolras's lower half, took a particular pleasure in checking his work for imperfections there at the backs of his thighs, running his hands over the surface and making sure it was smooth.

He continued to speak to Enjolras as he worked, but as he formed these regions of his body, Grantaire became more reserved, a shyness coming through that he had never experienced before with the other nudes he had sculpted. He found himself blushing the evening he stood between Enjolras's thighs, and began to sculpt the modest form between his legs. 

“I… I hope you don't think me shallow,” he said, breaking the reverent silence in the workshop. “That I'm always praising your beauty. I wish I could know more about you. You are a mystery to me, Enjolras. I have spent many a night trying to understand what I cannot. But I remember the sound of your voice, and how it captivated me. When I heard it I knew I would do whatever you asked of me.” He smiled to himself as he delicately chiseled the soft organ from hard marble. “And I know you must feel at home by the sea. That is where I first saw you, and near where I found you, where you were waiting for me. And…and I know you crave freedom over all else, for that is what you asked of me. But you are almost there. Just a bit more, just a few more days, and-” 

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Grantaire gasped at the sudden noise, the chisel slipping as the mallet came down. Then he stared, wide-eyed and open mouthed, at what he had just done. A gash had opened up, an unsightly wound now dug into the smooth, finished area of Enjolras’s inner thigh. A large crumble of marble fell to the floor. 

_No…no, this can’t be!_

He exhaled, horrified, and came to himself as the continued knocking stirred him from his stupor. He threw down his tools and sprang over to the door, flinging it open. _”What?_ he snapped. He saw that it was Courfeyrac, and he grew even more incensed. “What do you want!?”

Courfeyrac took a step back, cowed by Grantaire's demeanor. “I… I came to ask if you wanted to come out with us tonight,” he managed to say. “There's going to be a party, and I thought maybe you might meet someone if you go-”

“No,” Grantaire snarled. “I don't want to _meet_ anyone. Now _go away.”_ He knew as he said it that Courfeyrac couldn't possibly know what he had caused, yet Grantaire didn't care. Enjolras was ruined.

Courfeyrac backed away, his mouth set in a guarded frown. “I've caught you at a bad time, it seems. Come see me when you are yourself again.” He turned towards the horse and cart he came in, where Jehan waited for him.

Grantaire slammed the door shut without an answer. Slowly he walked back to his sculpture, heart aching miserably knowing what he would find there once more. He could see it plain as day, a rift cut into his upper thigh, and uneven break near the groin where he had been sculpting. He reached out a finger and traced the offending divot, following the curve of the thigh.

“I am sorry... I am so sorry,” he lamented, disgusted with himself as tears welled in his eyes. He took up his mallet and chisel, attempting to smooth down the sharp edge he had created, yet despite his efforts, the damage could not be undone. With that, he dropped his tools and began to weep. 

He pressed his face in the crook of Enjolras’s hip, tears falling on the marble and soaking in. He wished he could throw his arms around the statue and beg for forgiveness, desperate for a word from his inanimate creation. “You were perfect, you were supposed to be perfect,” he whispered. “No...you are perfect, you are a god. It is I who ruined you in this form. Wherever you are, Enjolras, please forgive me. It is imperfection that makes me human. I could not live up to this task.”

He slowly fell to his knees, sobbing beneath his sculpture, head bowed to the floor. There was no point in continuing, for how could he, with such an obvious blemish, a gaping hole, on his masterwork? All his days of hard labor, now wasted. Even if he wished to start over, he could not, for it was not as if the goddess would simply hand over a _second_ sacred piece of marble. He had defiled it, by being clumsy, by being inept, by being a failure of an artist.

By the time he managed to move, his eyes were puffy and red. He got up in a daze, walking like the living dead up the stairs to his bedroom. Tugging the mattress off his narrow bed, he dragged it back down the stairway, into the workshop, and lay it at the base of the sculpture. Then he curled up miserably upon it, like a dog with only the memory of his master for company, and went to sleep beside his ruined Enjolras, heartbroken.

_Grantaire…_

_Sculptor, it is alright..._

_Do not give up, you will be alright…_

“Grantaire...Grantaire!”

He opened his eyes, blinking at the bright morning sun. A dark shape above him was shaking him awake, slowly looking more and more like his apprentice. “Grantaire, sir what are you doing sleeping on the floor like this?” Joly asked with concern.

“Penance,” Grantaire mumbled.

“What? What's wrong?”

“Look,” Grantaire said, pointing up to the sculpture without turning his face to see it himself, still so utterly pained to think of it.

Joly looked up at the statue, eyebrows drawn down as he stared at it. “What am I supposed to be seeing?” he finally asked.

“His _leg_ , Joly,” Grantaire growled from the mattress. “My hand, it...it slipped.”

Joly stood up to examine Enjolras, still looking confused. “I…I'm not seeing… oh, what, _this?_ Don't be dramatic, Grantaire, it's a scratch at most.”

Grantaire grit his teeth, pushing himself up with anger. “You can't see that this has completely ru-” He stopped and stared. What had seemed like a gash on his thigh last night looked more like a small nick. He could see it, yet it was so minimal he had to lean in close to do so. 

“You're not well, Grantaire,” Joly said over his shoulder.

“No, I…” His nose was nearly to the marble as he ran his finger over it. He could swear that last night he had felt the rift, a break in the marble as plain as day. Now it seemed it had healed over like living flesh, a seam closed. _Was_ he losing his sanity? Or had he truly thrown a fit over something so small? “L-last night, I swear, it was-”

“That’s enough, sir.” Joly said determinedly, putting on a stern face. “It’s time for a break.”

Grantaire let his apprentice tug him away from Enjolras in a perplexed daze. Joly guided him to his living quarters, helping him change his rumpled clothes and serving him breakfast. Then he took him outside to feed the mule, and get some air. “Your tree has grown so much,” Joly commented as they stepped out into the yard.

Grantaire, already confused, performed a double take. The seed he had planted only two weeks ago was a thriving tree nearly as tall as himself. The last time he had noticed the plant it was a thin sapling, but it seemed another growth spurt had occurred. Grantaire was no expert in gardening, but he was quite sure it took years for a normal seed to become a robust little tree such as this. He stood there, staring at it dumbly, until Joly called him over to help with Mabeuf.

Once the mule was fed, Joly led Grantaire out of the shop and down the road for some time away from the shop. Grantaire closed his eyes as he felt the breeze in his hair, taking a deep breath and trying to let go of all the emotions he had experienced the night before. Already, he felt himself a different man, as if he had stepped outside himself into the sunlight, and left the tortured artist behind in the shop. 

“You cannot sculpt at your best if you don't take care of yourself,” Joly commented on their way down the hill, passing under the shade of the overhanging trees. “Creativity thrives when the soul is at peace. Do you remember saying that to me, when I first started?”

“I do. But it is not creativity that guides my hand, not this time,” Grantaire said, with a thoughtful shake of his head. He might have been creating his finest sculpture, but he didn't feel _creative._ He was not inventing, nor expressing himself; he was _worshipping,_ diligently recreating the boy of his dreams out of devotion. 

“What is it that guides your hand then, Grantaire?” Joly asked curiously.

“...Love,” Grantaire said plainly.

“Love,” Joly repeated, puzzled, waiting for him to explain, but Grantaire kept silent. “A sculptor _should_ love what he does,” Joly said conclusively as he looked down the road ahead, accepting his own answer as resolution.

Grantaire couldn't help but smile. “Who is the apprentice today, I wonder?”

Joly turned red, hands fluttering nervously. “I-I don't mean to overstep-”

“No, really, thank you, Joly. For taking care of me. I think I need this,” he admitted, gazing out at the world all around them.

Upon reaching the city, they bought a meal of fresh lamb and flatbread in the agora and went off to attend a satyr play at the amphitheater. As Grantaire sat watching, allowing himself to enjoy and laughing along with the players cavorting about on stage, he noticed a change within him. He felt as if a piece of himself was returning, something he failed to realize had gone missing in the first place. Where along the way had he broken, and lost his good humor, his sense of fun? It wasn't simply the past few weeks that he had been shutting himself away, for even before the dream, he had spent many a night depressed and drunk. Perhaps he had not been taking care of himself for a long while. 

“Do you feel better?” Joly asked that evening, as they walked up the hill back to the workshop after a day of entertainment. 

“Much,” Grantaire nodded, putting an arm around Joly. “I don't know what I'd do without you. Just know when you graduate your apprenticeship, you will always be welcome to stay and work alongside me,”

“Thank you, master,” Joly grinned. “I might take you up on that offer.” They reached the shop, and Joly gave him a respectful nod as he prepared to continue down the road to his own home. “Back to work tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said as he unlocked the door.

“Then don't stay up all night sculpting,” Joly chided over his shoulder as he strode away.

“...I won't!” Grantaire reluctantly called after him, and closed the door behind him, a soft smile upon his lips. 

He found Enjolras waiting for him expectantly, rimmed by the orange light of the setting sun streaming in through the back windows. “Did you miss having me around today?” Grantaire asked as he came over, and the sculpture said nothing. 

Grantaire looked up at him, remembering again what had happened between them, and placed a hand on his marble thigh, feeling for the wound from the previous evening. It was almost imperceptible, a thin scrape hardly visible and smooth enough to the touch. The untrained eye would never have noticed. That was not how he had left it the night before.

“I _know_ what I saw ,” he said to Enjolras, fingers trailing down as he let go of his thigh, gazing up at his face. “And it won't ever happen again, I promise. Just a few more days, Enjolras…just a few more days and you will be complete.” With that, he took up his tools and settled between Enjolras's legs, refreshed and eager to finish what he had started last night.

In the morning, Joly was pleased to be greeted at the door by a well rested Grantaire, who had gone to bed at a decent hour, the mattress gone from the workshop floor. “I had a thought,” Grantaire said as his apprentice stepped inside. “Let me know if you are comfortable with this. I was wondering if perhaps you might take over sculpting on the Pegasus for now, and I'll work on my project.”

Joly gave him a lopsided smile. “I didn't dare suggest it myself, but I've been _waiting_ for you to ask me that.”

“Oh.” Grantaire grinned sheepishly back. “Then I am eager to see what you can do on your own,” he said as he handed over Joly’s satchel of tools. “Get to work.”

“Yes, master!” Joly nodded, excited for his new responsibility.

Now free to work on his own private task, Grantaire picked up his mallet and chisel and returned to Enjolras’s side. Throughout the day, he visited Joly at the Pegasus to provide tips on sculpting the wings, at one point sketching up a diagram on parchment for reference. But Joly was doing well on his own, and Grantaire was able to dedicate most of his time to shaping Enjolras's legs, forming the knees and the soft indentations behind, along with the calves and their defined muscles, smoothing and refining them with his file by the end of the evening.

The next day it was the ankles, the feet, something that required as much attention as the hands in their complexity, and Grantaire spent many hours bent over them, perfecting each in symmetry. When he finally straightened up, he breathed a sigh of relief. _You're almost there,_ he thought, for he didn't speak out loud to Enjolras with Joly around. Instead, he put a reassuring hand on one of Enjolras’s newly formed feet, and smiled proudly up at him.

All that was left to sculpt now was the base he stood upon. In the days that followed, he carved the remainder of the block into graceful swirls and splashes of water at Enjolras's feet, a task that required creative maneuvering around Enjolras's legs to properly execute. He had to remind himself to keep patient as he went, for with each blow of the mallet or scrape of the file, his heart seemed to flutter, anticipating how close he was to completing the most important work of his life. 

Joly came to him at the end of the second day spent on the base, and asked for the following day off. “I've been getting a bit exhausted myself,” Joly admitted, “And if it's alright with you-”

“Of course,” Grantaire allowed. He knew that Joly had been nearly overexerting himself in an effort to prove himself worthy of the Pegasus project. “Take the day off. Take two days off.” 

“A-are you sure?”

Grantaire looked over his shoulder, back to Enjolras. “Tomorrow will be my last day,” he vowed, “and then I will rest, too.”

A smile spread across Joly’s face, and he put a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. “I am glad to hear that. Good luck, master.”

“Thank you. Joly.”

When Grantaire went to bed that night, his heart would not still. He knew for certain that tomorrow was the final day. Then his task would be done, and with any hope, Enjolras, wherever his true presence lay, would be pleased, and at peace.

He awoke before sunrise, feeding himself and Mabeuf a hearty breakfast before getting right to work. Kneeling on the floor of the workshop, he carefully sculpted and smoothed the last splashes of water at Enjolras's feet, his face bent right down to the surface. It was precarious work, refining the delicate webbed arcs, but though his hands were nearly shaking with anticipation, he did not break the last fine droplets of marble.

When he finally stood up at midafternoon, he stepped back for his final assessment, staring up at Enjolras as he had done so many days and nights up to this moment. He could spot a few flaws on final examination, but leaned in to smooth them out, a simple chink of the mallet here or a rasp of the file there to remove the offending facets. Lastly, he brought out the pumice stone and mineral oil, and polished his masterpiece down to glossy perfection, until each curve, each muscle, every brilliant surface on Enjolras’s marble body shone.

Then, Grantaire slowly walked around the sculpture, running his hands over his work as he always did, feeling them glide over the slick, cool surface, uninterrupted. No sharp points, no rough spots. Enjolras, save for the tiny scrape on his inner thigh, was immaculate, an exact replica of the boy in his mind’s eye. 

And yet… something was missing. He could be livened up with a coat of paint, of course, though somehow it seemed a shame to think of covering up the fine gleaming marble that had stood out so starkly from the rest at the quarry. But that wasn’t it. He stared, brows drawn down as he pondered, trying to picture the dream alongside this real life recreation. What could he have possibly forgotten, when he thought of this boy every moment of the day? Suddenly though, as the afternoon sunlight glinted off the top of Enjolras’s head, a memory sparked in the sculptor's mind, and he snapped his fingers with realization. 

He would not be able to add any more to the marble, but luckily, there was an elegant solution to his forgetfulness. He went to the coffer, and swept up the gold drachma he had been carefully saving, payment from earlier pieces. With no reservations, he threw them into the kiln at the back of the workshop and melted them down into liquid gold. He then poured it carefully onto the surface of the stone worktable, and as it cooled he began to hammer the soft metal flat. He shaped it, carved it, etching and bending it with his tools, and as the last rays of the sun shone over the back garden wall and through the windows, he held up the finished piece, glittering in his hands.

He set the small wooden stepladder in front of Enjolras for the final time, and climbing onto it, one, two, three steps to the top, he stood face to face with his sculpture and carefully placed the golden laurel wreath upon his head. It sat perfectly atop his wild hair, a crown fit for a god, and just like that, his masterwork was complete. 

“You are the reason I became a sculptor,” he told Enjolras as he stood before him, gently taking his white face in his calloused hands. “My path has led me to you. I hope I have honored your wishes, for all I wanted was to make you proud, Enjolras. You are everything to me.” With that, he leaned in and placed a kiss on Enjolras's smooth, polished lips, still and unmoving. They were cold against his own lips, but as he exhaled against them he thought, just for a moment, he felt the slightest bit of warmth. It was simply the reflection of his own breath against the marble though, and as he pulled back, Enjolras stared unseeingly back at him, unknowingly kissed. “I love you,” Grantaire told him even so, tracing his fingers over his beautiful features before letting him go, and stepping down from the ladder.

Then, for the first time since he began his journey with Enjolras, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of wine, not to drown in it, but savor instead. It was a reward, an indulgence he allowed after weeks of hardship. The mere taste was a reminder of how thankful he was to be on the other side, for no longer did he feel depressed, or lonely, not after all he had accomplished

He went outside with his cup as the sun disappeared, the sky glowing orange and purple in its wake. He was meaning to draw fresh water from the well to chase the wine, when something round and red caught his eye, stopping him in his tracks. There on the tree, planted such an impossibly short time ago, were plump pomegranates, ready to be picked. He gazed upon them reverently, lowering his wine, and approaching the tree he reached up and plucked the nearest fruit from its branch. “Aphrodite,” he whispered softly in gratitude, realizing he had almost forgotten her the more Enjolras had filled his mind. “You shall have the first.”

Once he had made and ate his own humble dinner, he set about preparing his offering to the goddess. He split the newly grown pomegranate on a plate, the fruit bursting with juice and far more appetizing than any he had purchased from the agora. But he refrained from tasting any of it, and surrounded his offering with a handful of berries, a drizzle of honey, and a sprig of mint to complete the plate.

Carrying it upstairs, he placed it on the low bedside table, beside the statuette of Aphrodite, who had not been moved since last he prayed to her. He lit the oil lamp beside her, and making sure the objects were arranged just so, he removed the sandals from his feet and knelt to pray. “Fair Aphrodite,” he began, “from the bottom of my heart, I must thank you. I am forever grateful, forever in your debt, for blessing me with your divine inspiration. You have changed everything, you, and Enjolras. I once asked you for love, but if I never meet another I will be content, for I know that he is the one I love. What you have given me is the greatest gift, and that is all this humble sculptor can ask for. I will keep him beside me all my life, and hope that he is happy, and pray that I have made you proud.”

He knelt in prayer for a long time, and though he had his fill of wine, no tears fell this time. When he curled up in his bed to sleep afterward, a satisfied smile graced his lips, the weight of all his hard work lifted from his shoulders. In the morning, he thought as he drifted off, he would decide which room in the house best complemented his beloved Enjolras.

Grantaire had not been resting long before he awoke suddenly, startled in the dark of night by the sound of a loud thump. He sat up in bed, heart beating nervously as he realized whatever it was out there was moving, not far from his room. _A thief?_ he thought, terrified that someone had come to harm Enjolras, or steal his golden crown. He was getting up, about to throw the blankets off his naked body, when a ghost appeared in the doorway, and he froze. The deathly pale figure stood there, hands on the doorframe as if to steady itself, and Grantaire's eyes widened as he slowly realized what stood before him in the darkness. 

“Enjolras?” he dared to whisper.

“Grantaire,” was the answer that came. 

Grantaire took a deep breath, staring in silence before he rose stiffly from the bed, the blankets falling away. “Am I dreaming?” he asked cautiously, not daring to hope for more.

“You are awake,” Enjolras replied softly.

Grantaire took a step closer, hands raising tentatively, fearful one wrong move might make it all go away. “Enjolras,” he called again, his voice begging for reassurance.

“I am here,” Enjolras promised, letting go of the doorway. He stepped forward to meet him, and promptly lost his footing on the floorboards, Grantaire swooping in to catch him just in time.

The sculptor braced himself for the weight of marble, but instead caught Enjolras easily, and held him upright in his arms. “I _am_ dreaming,” Grantaire stated firmly as he stared down at the boy, white as starlight. His skin was unexpectedly soft, yet still remained cold as stone.

“How can it be a dream, when I fell on the stairs?” Enjolras countered in amusement, his hands steadied on Grantaire’s chest. “Surely your dreams would offer me a little more dignity than that.”

“You fell?” Grantaire repeated, and remembered the sound that had woken him. “You are weak,” he concluded with concern, as he supported him in his arms.

“I am not used to walking,” Enjolras corrected.

Grantaire let the words sink in, before he quickly scooped him up and carried him to the bed, sitting him down on the soft blankets. He attempted to relight the lamp on the bedside table, but his hands were shaking so much it was all he could do to push open the shutters instead. Moonlight spilled across the bed, and he was able to see Enjolras's ghostly face looking up at him. Grantaire sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, tentatively taking that face in his hands as he had so many times before, and studied him in silent awe.

This was the face he had so carefully sculpted, and yet so much had changed, and come to life. His eyes seemed human, with big black pupils that met Grantaire's gaze in return, the irises tinted the palest blue. His hair no longer floated stiffly about his head but instead fell in natural locks, silvery in the moonlight, ruffling in the night breeze coming through the window. His mouth parted to exhale breath, warmth coming from within, even as his skin remained cool. The only thing that remained truly unchanged was the golden laurel atop his head, the sculptor’s last finishing touch.

“Do you remember the beach?” Grantaire asked, wondering if this living statue was the very same Enjolras from his dream.

Enjolras nodded slowly in Grantaire's hands. “I remember every word, everything I asked of you.”

“And have I given you all you asked? Have I served you well?” Grantaire felt his voice quavering in his throat, desperate for approval. 

“Oh Grantaire, can’t you see that you have?” Enjolras said softly, his fingers reaching up to trace Grantaire’s cheek. “Look at me. It is because of you that I move, that I breathe, that I am now free. Only you could have made me a body worthy of life.”

Grantaire let out a breath, which nearly became a sob, tears springing to his eyes. He did not know what to say, for how could he respond to such praise? Emotion overwhelmed him, welling up inside his chest and surrounding his heart so tightly he could hardly stand it. He collapsed, falling forward against Enjolras and burying his nose against his cold neck.

“Don't cry,” Enjolras whispered, as Grantaire’s tears fell on his skin. He placed a hand gently on his head, stroking his hair. “Don't cry. Are you not happy, Grantaire?”

“I have never been more happy,” Grantaire answered shakily, his face still pressed against Enjolras. The mere fact that Enjolras’s hand was upon him, touching him, comforting him, was a miracle. “But I am afraid...”

“What do you fear?” Enjolras asked, his fingers gliding down Grantaire’s jaw, tilting his chin and guiding him upward so their eyes could meet once more.

“That you will disappear at any moment, like in my dream,” he admitted.

Enjolras carefully brushed a tear from Grantaire's cheek. “When you wake again in the morning, I will be here beside you,” he promised.

Grantaire blinked his wet eyes at him, before leaning in and kissing him gratefully, lovingly, hand cupping the back of Enjolras's neck. Enjolras needed no encouragement and kissed him in return, his lips guiding Grantaire to savor each first kiss. Like the rest of his skin, his lips were cool, though as Grantaire exhaled against them they warmed, and began to feel human. It did not matter to Grantaire what they were, for he was kissing the boy he loved, one who moved and breathed and returned his affections with one soft, blissful kiss after another. But Grantaire paused, pulling back after a shiver ran down Enjolras's spine beneath his hand. “You are cold,” Grantaire pointed out, brows knitted with concern, only now realizing that the former sculpture might experience discomfort in his own temperature

“I was not cold until I felt your heat,” Enjolras replied, his fingers reaching up to warm themselves on Grantaire’s cheeks. “Lend me more of it?”

“How could I refuse?” Grantaire almost laughed, only too eager to fulfill Enjolras’s request. He guided him to lay down on the bed, pulling the blankets up tightly around them both, and wrapped his limbs around Enjolras's body. He felt his chilled feet against his legs, searching for warmth, and Grantaire could hardly hold back a smile, for he was needed. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” Enjolras sighed, relaxing in his arms. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire held him close, marvelling at the sound of his name on Enjolras’s lips. “How did you know my name?” he asked softly. “I never had a chance to tell you when we met.”

“But I have heard so much since,” Enjolras explained. “Ever since you formed my ears…” He reached up and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, to show off what Grantaire had made. “I have been listening. Your apprentice calls you sir, and master, and Grantaire. When you made my eyes, I could see. You stood there, gazing at me, but you did not know I was there, did you?”

Grantaire shook his head, amazed, and so relieved that he had talked to Enjolras each night, keeping him company as he worked. “That…that means that you know I love you,” he said, taking his hand.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathed out, entwining their fingers. “Yes, my love, I do.”

Grantaire's heart nearly stopped, for Enjolras had said the words so simply, so plainly. _My love._ “I never knew you were so near,” he continued when he had recovered. “I thought that loving you as...as an effigy...was how I was meant to experience love in this life. And in truth you were some Olympian presence, far from here.”

“No, I was always with you,” Enjolras assured him. “I felt you from the beginning, when you found me, imprisoned as I was. You were just out of reach but I felt you, outside. And then, when you formed my body, I learned how it felt to have your hands upon me,” he whispered, pressing closer. He took Grantaire’s hand and placed it on his belly, moving it slowly across his skin until Grantaire understood and took over, stroking him at his request. “Your hands, sculptor’s hands, they are capable of so much. Creation, and comfort…”

Grantaire's lips twitched again at the praise, wanting to smile, though he was enraptured, mesmerized by Enjolras’s words. His hand moved up Enjolras’s torso, over his chest, and there beneath his fingers, he felt what had to be a heart, miraculously beating inside of him, giving him life. His hand continued its journey over Enjolras’s side, and down his smooth back, feeling the graceful curve of his spine, and Enjolras made a soft noise of pleasure, curling his toes against Grantaire’s leg. Overcome with endearment, Grantaire buried his nose in Enjolras's soft hair, breathing him in, and noted he smelled like the workshop. He smelled like home.

Grantaire kissed him all over, pressing his lips to his ear, his cheek, his jaw, remembering as he did how it felt to sculpt them, how he formed them beneath his hands with such care. Enjolras leaned into each kiss, fingers grasping Grantaire’s chest as he was kissed on his neck, his lips, his nose. Grantaire was worshipping each delicate feature, wanting to lose himself in this new living, breathing work of art, and Enjolras eagerly received his affections, allowing his full indulgence.

As Grantaire attended to Enjolras, he noticed that his body had warmed, taking on the heat Grantaire provided, and Grantaire felt warmer himself. His cheeks were flushed with pleasure, a sensation far more rewarding than the kind that came with cup of wine. He had never experienced such joy in his life, and he doubted anyone else had either, for how often did something so unfathomable come to be? Something wondrous, something magical had happened in this very shop.

“You'll stay with me?” Grantaire asked, full of hope.

“Always,” Enjolras nodded slowly. “I would not abandon the man who gave me my freedom.” He reached up and ran a hand through Grantaire's hair, and Grantaire closed his eyes, melting beneath his touch. 

“I love you so,” he sighed, and pulled him closer, wanting time to stop so they could simply lie entangled like this forever. Perhaps they would, for Grantaire did not think he could bear to get up again, if it meant breaking their embrace. This was all he wanted, his greatest wish granted, and he saw no reason why he would need to move ever again, save to run his hands over Enjolras’s body.

He let his fingers wander over his form, following the familiar curves now softened with skin. As he did, he could feel Enjolras pressing against his hands, moving to meet his touch, fitting himself into his roaming palms. He had been crafted beneath Grantaire’s hands, and seemed to be enlivened by them now with each caress, soft sounds of encouragement escaping his throat. “I see this pleases you...” Grantaire whispered in his ear.

“I have grown to crave your touch,” Enjolras murmured. He was faintly rubbing his hips against Grantaire, and though his marble body had significantly softened, there was one part of him becoming hard once more. 

Grantaire smiled, opening his eyes again. “And you have grown in other ways,” he purred, his own body feeling a similar excitement.

“The sensation is new,” Enjolras allowed. “But I do not wish it to stop.” He took Grantaire’s hand, resting on his hip, and slid it down between his legs. As Grantaire obliged, taking hold, Enjolras inhaled sharply, discovering how the touch he so craved felt on the most sensitive part of his new body.

It was the first time Grantaire had touched anyone like this, so he stroked Enjolras's cock in the way he would his own, fascinated by the sounds coming from Enjolras’s throat. Another small miracle, such beautiful music from lips that were once sealed shut. “I… I must confess,” Grantaire said softly. “I have never done anything like this before.”

“I know,” Enjolras assured him, eyes closed as he enjoyed Grantaire’s attentions. “You told me.”

“I did?” Grantaire asked, blushing at his forgetfulness.

“You told me many things when you were hard at work. Y-you told me…” Enjolras paused as he pushed against Grantaire’s hand, enjoying the stimulation. “You told me that you prayed to Aphrodite for love.”

“And she has sent you,” Grantaire said with pride. “You…I have spent so long talking of myself and yet all I wanted was to hear about you. Tell me, Enjolras, who are you? Where did you come from?”

Enjolras's hips stilled, and he slowly opened his eyes to meet Grantaire's gaze. “I...can't remember,” he whispered.

“Is there anything you remember?” Grantaire asked, taken aback.

“I remember being imprisoned in marble, and calling out to you, when we met on another plane in your dream,” Enjolras said in contemplation. “I knew to find you and yet, I don’t know how I knew.” 

“Aphrodite sent you,” Grantaire prompted, hand resting idly between Enjolras's legs. “I thought...maybe you might be a son of the goddess.”

“...I met her,” Enjolras said slowly, as if a distant memory were returning. “She was beautiful...” He was quiet for a moment, his face serene. “Mm, but I do not remember much else. I especially do not remember telling you to stop.”

Grantaire bit his lip, catching onto Enjolras’s meaning, and couldn’t help but laugh. He hastened to take hold of Enjolras once more. “My apologies, love.”

“No, no,” Enjolras said with amusement, squirming beneath his touch. “I tease. Forgive my selfishness. You have done so much for me already, Grantaire. It is I who must return such kindness.”

“I ask nothing of you,” Grantaire shook his head with a dazed smile. “My only wish is to please you, Enjolras. And if this is what you desire....” He ran his thumb beneath the tip of Enjolras's cock, and in turn, felt a shudder run through his his body. “I shall not deny you.” 

“I-I insist,” Enjolras continued, a falter in his voice. “Do not be so humble. I know you have needs of your own.”

Grantaire knew there was something he did want, though it was so simple, so obvious, he found himself shy to voice it. “I want to take you as my lover,” he said softly.

Enjolras put a hand to Grantaire’s cheek, his fingertips lovingly tracing his jawline. “Then that is what I want, too.”

Grantaire nodded eagerly, and kissed him. His heart began to race once again, pounding with anticipation, and his mind clamored for where to start. _Oil, you must always use oil,_ Courfeyrac had told him once long ago, when Grantaire had listened on in envy, and he hadn't forgotten. He rolled over to retrieve the oil he kept in his drawer, used for attending himself on occasion, and coated the fingers of his left hand. Then he returned to Enjolras and drew him close, wrapping his arms around him and pressing their hips together. Attempting to keep calm, Grantaire moved his hand steadily, carefully, down Enjolras’s lower back, and realized with a sudden start he did not even know if Enjolras was _capable_ of being made love to.

Cautiously, he slid his hand downward between the soft curves, and there, to his relief, was an entrance. Grantaire had not carved it between his legs, but neither had he sculpted teeth and tongue between his closed lips, and yet Enjolras smiled and spoke. Nor had he made him a heart, yet one fluttered there in Enjolras’s chest. He had been made whole where Grantaire could not, his body completed by the power that brought him to life. He heard Enjolras suck in his breath, stirring Grantaire from his renewed sense of awe. “What is it?” he asked with concern.

“You have never touched me there before,” Enjolras explained, slowly letting out his breath.

“That is because I could not,” Grantaire said, the corner of his mouth turning up in his crooked smile. “Do you wish me to continue?”

Enjolras lifted his leg, wrapping it around Grantaire's hip. “Yes,” he encouraged softly. “Your hands are welcome anywhere.”

Grantaire kissed him once more, overjoyed to hear such words. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For your permission.”

He pressed his fingers into Enjolras, feeling them slide slowly inside, and marveled how warm it was within him, when his skin had been so cold. It was as if a core of humanity had been inside him all along, the soul encased within stone. Enjolras pushed back against his fingers, mouth open as he exhaled a soft breath, and fit himself against Grantaire's hand. He seemed to trust Grantaire implicitly in this intimacy, and held onto his shoulders securely as Grantaire pressed his other hand to Enjolras’s lower back, steadying him.

Though Grantaire was inexperienced, he felt as though he knew how to handle the boy in his arms, as if he already knew every inch of his body, even inside him. Enjolras closed his eyes and let Grantaire take control, subtly moving his hips along with Grantaire’s capable, guiding hands. There was an unspoken connection, a bond Enjolras had with Grantaire's hands that only could have existed between a sculptor and his art, creator and creation.

 _This is what Aphrodite wanted,_ Grantaire thought. _This is why she sent you to me in stone. We have something no other pair on earth can know, no greater tie to bind us._ With that, he slowly slid his fingers out, and aiming his hips, his arousal finding the entrance, he guided himself inside Enjolras’s body with a sigh. _And we are forever bound._

Enjolras wound his arms and legs around him and lay back, as Grantaire moved to be on top. He circled his hips, revelling in the pleasure and warmth inside his lover, and felt Enjolras’s comforting breaths against his ear. Not once could he forget how miraculous it was that this body drew breath, that a heart beat against his chest in time with his own. That the fingers he had carefully carved were combing through his hair, that the thighs he had sculpted, nearly agonized over, were squeezing his hips, keeping him grounded between them. That the one he loved lay beneath him in his bed, present, and open, and alive.

Enjolras was the only thing that mattered anymore, as Grantaire buried himself inside him, again and again. He wanted to never let go of the boy in his arms, to forever feel this high that had taken over his body and mind, and stay joined for an eternity. Each thrust overwhelmed him, each wave of pleasure washed over him like the sea on the shore, spreading through his limbs, his veins, his blood. Never had an artist lost himself so thoroughly in his art, and never would another experience such love again...

Grantaire awoke, the sunlight streaming through the open shutters onto his bed, right into his eyes. He blinked away the bright light, his eyes adjusting in the morning glow. As he returned to himself, the effervescent joy he had felt that night filled him once more, and he lovingly hugged the pale form that lay in his arms. Then he started, his arms squeezing into softness, and found there was only a pillow nestled there between them. With delayed realization, he threw the pillow aside, and sat bolt upright in bed, eyes desperately searching around the room. He was, once again, alone.

His forehead burned, his jaw tightened, feeling himself caught between fear and anger and uncertainty. _He told me it was not a dream!_ he protested as his heart plummeted into his stomach. _I wanted to believe him, I let myself believe…It seemed so real, I thought that-_ His thoughts stalled. Looking down, he touched his stomach where the white stickiness of release was left. He saw it so vividly in his mind, Enjolras arching, eyes fluttering, breathing out his name as he came against his belly. Was this proof, that it had all been real? _No, you fool,_ he chastised, realizing what must have happened last night as he dreamed. _It is your own mess you’ve made._

As he turned to get out of bed, tossing aside the blankets, he saw the offering plate on the table beside him, clean, and empty, no trace of fruit left behind. He narrowed his eyes, thinking back. He had not even noticed, not looked to see if it had been there when he lay with Enjolras last night. And now it was bare and waiting, as it had been the last time he had met Enjolras in a dream, but this time no seed lay upon it, no message left behind. There was a finality in that, as if it were all over, the story of Enjolras and Grantaire complete.

 _It cannot be over!_ Grantaire shouted in his mind, but as he sat hunched over the side of his bed clutching the sheets, he remembered, distantly, the words of his own prayer from what seemed so long ago. _Send me someone who will love me…even for a night, even for a moment._ He clenched his jaw, wanting to hurl the plate across the room and shatter it against the wall. _One night is not enough, will never be enough!_

He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, attempting to calm himself and return to that peace he had found last night. Back to the darkness, and the moonlight, and that familiar body beneath him. The sound of husky breaths against his ear, as he gripped those hips in his strong hands. The heat that enveloped them, the blissful rush, the mounting excitement. The glorious climax with stars in his eyes, the ecstasy he had waited for all his life. The pale limbs around his neck, limp as Enjolras lay sated underneath him, an exhausted smile upon his face.

Slowly, Grantaire opened his eyes, and forced himself to rise from the bed. He cleaned his belly with a washcloth and dressed, methodically tying on his sandals with unsteady hands. He did not want to get up and yet, he had to see Enjolras, had to go downstairs and look upon him, and wonder if he really was inside, wanting to be touched and talked to, and kept in Grantaire’s company. _What if..._ he thought desperately, as he left his bedroom with the offering plate, descending the stairs to the kitchen below. _What if I make the goddess an offering from her tree every night? Will I see him then? Will he come to me each night?_ The thought, while ambitious, raised his spirits, and he felt the pain settling over his heart lift, just a little, knowing that he would do that again and again if it meant being with Enjolras, if only in dreams.

But as he stepped into the kitchen, the plate fell from his hands, rolling away with a clatter as he saw what lay beyond the open doorway to the studio. Eyes wide, he pushed forward into the shop and stared dumbfounded at the base in the center of the floor. Enjolras’s base, with nothing on top of it. Grantaire’s hands began to shake, reaching out at first to touch the smooth top of the base before he stepped away, eyes darting nervously all around his studio. _Where...where did he go?_ “Enjolras?” he called out cautiously, nearly running into the the Pegasus sculpture as he paced desperately around his shop. _Does this mean...could he be..._

Not finding him in the workshop, or in the storage room, he ran back through the kitchen and swung open the door to the yard, and then, as he stumbled outside, his heart nearly stopped. Lying in the grass, propped up against the well, the marble-white figure was stretched out in the sunlight. Grantaire wanted to laugh, he was so relieved to see him there...and yet, that relief died quite suddenly when he realized something was wrong. He ran across the yard, falling upon his knees beside the prone form, and Enjolras looked up at him weakly, his breathing labored.

“I remembered...” he said hoarsely. “Something from before. She told me...to… to find water. That I would need water. I tried,” he raised a hand, indicating the well behind him, “but I have lost my strength, I’m afraid.”

Grantaire quickly jumped up and pulled the rope hand over hand, raising the bucket from the well and pulling it over the side. Kneeling back down beside Enjolras, he ladled the water to his lips, holding up his chin. “It’s alright,” Grantaire said, though he was scared himself. “I am here.”

Enjolras drank several ladlefuls of the water, then lay his head back on the stone, eyelids half-closed over his pale blue eyes. Out here in the sun, Grantaire could see a twinge of pink on his lips and cheeks, a kiss of gold in his hair, but for the most part, he was a stark, colorless white, and right then he seemed as pale as a corpse.

Grantaire thought back to the night before, how Enjolras had fallen on the stairs, how he had stumbled into his arms, realizing how little strength he must have had from the start. And how much weaker he had grown, whether from the journey downstairs, or from what Grantaire had done with him last night. “Why didn’t you wake me!?” he demanded, putting a hand to Enjolras’s forehead, and finding his skin ice cold. How long had he lain here alone?

“You had spent so many sleepless nights beside me. I couldn’t bear to wake you when you were sleeping well,” Enjolras smiled up at him dazedly. ”I thought I should go by myself.”

Grantaire shook his head quickly, hating himself for letting Enjolras suffer alone. “No, no, I thought you were gone! I was so stupid, If I’d’ve known, I would have come right away! Here, please,” he begged, picking up the ladle and offering him more water.

Enjolras started to drink from it before he slowly pulled back, pushing the ladle from his mouth with a shake of his head. “It is not helping,” he coughed, and Grantaire stared, confused and frightened.

“Enjolras,” he whispered gravely. “What can I do?”

“She told me…” Enjolras repeated deliriously. “To find water. Right before we met, you and I. She spoke to me, and said to find water, when I was free. But it doesn’t make me feel anything,” he shook his head, closing his eyes.

“She...” Grantaire echoed back. “She, Aphrodite.” A sudden spark, and he understood. “The sea, Enjolras, that is the water you need! We must go!” He threw aside the ladle, knocking over the bucket as he scrambled to his feet. “Stay here, d-don’t move!” he told Enjolras, and ran towards the stable.

 _Of course,_ Grantaire realized, as he hurriedly pulled Mabeuf out of his stall, leading him to the waiting cart beside the workshop. _We met at the sea, and now we must return._ It was there that the goddess was born and there where her true power would be. If the force that brought Enjolras to life was now fading, then surely in those sacred waters they would find a stronger one, one that would endure. A prayer and a pomegranate did not seem to be enough.

When Mabeuf was harnessed to the wagon, Grantaire raced back to the yard, and lifted Enjolras, shivering, into his arms. “Stay with me,” he instructed solemnly, and carried him to the cart. He wrapped him tightly up in the blanket meant for protecting sculptures in transport, and sat him on the bench, keeping one arm around him for support. “Ya!” Grantaire yelled, snapping the reigns, and off they went, Mabeuf trotting significantly faster without the weight of marble in his cart.

But it was not fast enough, for Enjolras was growing weaker, and the sea was not closeby. Grantaire could not stop to make a better plan though, for going into town to beg Marius for his horse was a detour they could not afford. He simply had to continue on as they were, bypassing the city on their way to the coast, and hope, and pray that they were not too late.

Enjolras’s head lay on his shoulder, rocking to and fro as the cart bounced along down the road, and Grantaire kept his hand firmly on him, holding him upright, speaking words of encouragement all the way. “We will be there soon…don’t worry, my love…you will be well again.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras answered back softly. “I am dying.”

“No,” Grantaire replied firmly, though he knew it to be true. “You only need to make it to the water, that is all.”

“I will try,” Enjolras promised, reaching up to put his hand over Grantaire’s. “But even if my life is just these few hours, know that being with you was how I wanted to spend them.”

“No,” Grantaire denied again, tears springing to his eyes. “You will have many more.” He gritted his teeth, and snapped the reigns again, urging Mabeuf onward.

“I do not wish to leave you,” Enjolras said. “But I fear I...cannot hold on...much longer…” With that, he slipped from his shoulder, his head falling into Grantaire’s lap.

Grantaire gasped, dismayed, though he could not seem to lift him up again, while still keeping hold of the reins. He let him lie instead, his hand held firmly on Enjolras’s chest to secure him. “You cannot die,” Grantaire said shakily, somehow knowing that if he lost him, there would be no praying him back to life again. “For if you do then I must perish with you. I cannot live in a world where I must let you go.” 

“Grantaire...” Enjolras started sadly, but said nothing more. Grantaire looked down to see him breathing faintly in his lap, eyes falling closed.

“Stay with me,” he ordered once more, and drove on, eyes on the horizon. He kept his hand over Enjolras’s chest, making sure he still drew breath, that his heart still beat, even as the wagon bumped and jolted down the road, making it difficult to discern those signs of life. All the while, Enjolras seemed to sink into his lap, his body growing colder, his head feeling heavier, pressing down into his thigh.

It was long, far too long, an hour or more, before the cart was pulling out of a grove of trees lining the dusty road, and there, finally before them, was the sea, sparkling in the morning light. “There!” Grantaire cried in relief. “We are almost there!” He let go of Enjolras to take the reins in both hands, and snapped them hard, pushing Mabeuf for his final leg of the journey.

The cart weaved and wound down the road that led to the beach. Grantaire turned his head distractedly, for just a moment, as they drove past the quarry, the marble workers milling about in the yard. It seemed so long ago that everything began, there at the quarry, only a few weeks before. But then it was out of sight, and Grantaire turned his eyes back on the sea, jaw set in determination, fists clenched around the leather straps as he pushed the mule on through that final stretch.

And then, they were pulling up beside the sand, and Grantaire drew sharply back on the reins. “Enjolras!” he exclaimed, putting a hand down upon him, but the boy in his lap was stiff and cold. Grantaire drew in his breath, not daring to believe he was already gone, and carefully slipped out from beneath him, jumping out of the cart. He turned to take Enjolras in his arms, to pull him off the bench, and found his body resistant. “Come, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, his voice wavering. “The water is right there…it’s right-nnngghh!” He almost dropped Enjolras as he pulled him from the cart, heaving to keep them both upright as the blanket fell to the ground. _He is…turning back..._ Grantaire realized as he caught his balance, looking down upon him in fear. _I am too late….no! I must...I have to..._

He gritted his teeth and started off down the beach with Enjolras’s body cradled in his arms, unsure if he still drew breath. But Grantaire would not give up, not when they were so near. _We...we will be together, Enjolras..._ His feet sunk into the sand as he tried to make his way to the water, weighed down as if he were attempting to run in a dream. With each crucial step forward, the burden in his arms seemed to grow, his balance faltering, his legs dragging beneath him, but he stubbornly kept hold. The weeks he had spent laboring over Enjolras, each arduous night of sculpting, each day spent in exhaustion, seemed simple now compared to this agonizing journey down the beach, with the water so near, and yet so far away. _We did not come all this way to end like this!_

Grantaire could feel Enjolras growing heavier by the second, and beneath his fingers, his cold skin hardening to stone. Grantaire’s arms were shaking, his muscles straining to hold the marble form to his chest, sweat dripping down his back. It took every effort to hoist him upward, to keep Enjolras from dragging them both down to the sand below. His body was stiff and inert, frozen in place, and even as Grantaire stumbled he did not move. What little color Enjolras had gained had drained from his lips, his hair, all returned to the gleaming marble white he once was, save for the crown of gold atop his head. With eyes closed peacefully, he lay draped in Grantaire’s arms as if he had been carved in such a pose, as if curled up in an eternal sleep. Grantaire was no longer a man carrying his lover, he was a sculptor, carrying his sculpture down to the sea.

When he reached the water’s edge, he knew Enjolras was gone. What he held in his hands was no longer alive, and yet he could not bring himself to stop. It was even harder to walk as he waded into the resistant water, but as it grew deeper with each persistent step forward, as the saltwater crept up his legs, up his hips, his waist, he relaxed, and let the water share some of the weight he carried. But he would not let go, could never let go. _Enjolras, you and I..._ Grantaire thought dazedly. _We will both go down together._

Deeper and deeper he went, the water rising over Enjolras’s body, up to Grantaire’s chest. Waves lapped calmly around them, the gentle breaking of the surf far behind them now. Enjolras’s neck began to submerge, then his chin, and before his beautiful face disappeared, Grantaire leaned down and left one last kiss on his frozen lips. Then he took one step further, and Enjolras was underneath the water, his pale form seeming to twist and distort as Grantaire looked down at him through the shifting surface. But Grantaire still held fast, and continued forward, losing traction on the end of the sandbank as the water travelled up his neck, until there was nothing more beneath his feet but the open sea. He surrendered gladly, letting the weight of Enjolras pull him down, letting the water surround him, encompass him, taking one last final breath before his head went under.

He sank with Enjolras held close, his hair, his tunic swirling about him beneath the water as they drifted down to the sea floor, his last breath of air slowly streaming from his nose. Here, at the bottom of the sea, he would remain, side by side with the boy he had loved and labored over with his own two hands, who he could not bear to live without again. _I will not leave you, even after you have left..._ he promised, even as his lungs began to burn. _I will not abandon the boy I set free._

_Let go..._

A voice in his head, a voice that was not his own, a soft, haunting, whisper.

 _No,_ he thought stubbornly, clinging to Enjolras, even as he felt a sudden tug, some force unseen, attempting to pull him upward.

_Let go!_

Grantaire suddenly felt as if he had been kicked, and his grip slipped from Enjolras’s body. Hurriedly he swam back, taking hold of one finely sculpted marble hand. _I won’t!_

_LET GO!_

Suddenly Grantaire felt himself bursting through the surface of the sea, gasping for breath. He turned, splashing water aside, searching desperately to spot where Enjolras’s body lay below him. But the waves began to surge around him, pushing him fervently, urgently towards the shore. He was helpless to fight, his muscles spent, and he weakly kicked to keep himself afloat as he was torn away from Enjolras’s watery resting place. He washed up upon the shore, the waves depositing him on the sand, where he was left dripping and dizzy with the realization he had been kicked out of the sea by an angry goddess.

He stood up, covered in sand, his wet hair in his face, and turned, ready to plunge back into the water. Baring his teeth, he felt hot tears stinging his eyes, already red with saltwater. He had been deprived of a befitting end, his death at Enjolras’s side. He charged into the surf, water splashing at his heels, determined to swim back out...when suddenly he stopped, and sucked in his breath, his feet firmly planted in the wet sand beneath the shallows. Ahead, in the deeper waters where Enjolras lay beneath, the sea began to churn, and glow. 

Eyes transfixed, he watched as the distant water spun into a whirlpool, foaming and frothing, while the rest of the sea lay calm, lapping gently at his ankles. He heard the sound of gulls calling overhead, felt the breeze pulling at his sodden tunic, yet he remained frozen in place, still as a statue, not daring to go closer, not daring to hope. 

But when Grantaire saw emerging from that bed of seafoam a golden head, his heart jumped, and he exhaled a trembling breath as he stared ahead towards the figure rising from the depths. As it slowly appeared, white marble dripped from the form like liquid, down the neck, the shoulders, the chest, like pearlescent paint washed away, sediment dissolved by seawater. It gave way to skin the decadent color of honey, gilded as the flowing, floating hair around the figure’s head. Then came the waist, the hips, the legs, and two delicately formed feet that stepped gingerly from the seafoam and onto the surface of the water. There Enjolras stood before Grantaire, no longer marble but human, or something much more, with fierce, bright, eager eyes that looked out upon him, and smiled. 

Grantaire fell to his knees, somehow unable to move, though he desperately wanted to run to his side. But Enjolras advanced, impossibly walking across the surface with only the soles of his feet submerged, though he moved through deeper waters. “E-Enjolras,” Grantaire called in reverent wonder.

“Grantaire,” he answered back, his voice so warm and familiar. Instead of sunset, like Grantaire’s dream, it was the morning sun that illuminated him, a fresh, joyful, divine light all around him. Gentle waves pulsed from beneath his feet, washing up against Grantaire where he knelt in the surf. As Enjolras came upon him in the sparkling shallows, he leaned down, taking Grantaire’s chin and tilting it upward. “Now, _now_ , I am truly free. You have done it, my love.”

Grantaire looked up at him, mystified. “Enjolras...” he whispered devoutly. “A-are you a god?”

“No,” Enjolras shook his head, crowned by Grantaire’s golden laurel wreath. “But I remember now who I am. Or rather, who I am not...I am no son of Aphrodite, no demigod.” He ran his fingers over Grantaire’s cheek, and smiled. “I am simply the answer to your prayers.” 

Grantaire shook his head in disbelief, for Enjolras was not _simply_ anything, but seeing his lover’s smile made him smile back, feeling himself fill with bewildered joy. “T-the goddess, I felt her. Aphrodite was here. She…”

“She has made me complete,” Enjolras finished for him. “She has ensured I will endure, thanks to you, my love. For bringing me in time.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, and held Enjolras’s hand to his cheek, kissing the palm. He knew how close Enjolras had come to death, and how ready he was to lay down his life beside him, thinking he was already gone. “Thank the goddess,” Grantaire whispered, “you are still here with me.”

“It is alright now,” Enjolras promised, and put his hands behind Grantaire’s arms, urging him to rise.

Grantaire was about to stand when he stopped, noticing before his eyes something on Enjolras’s leg. He reached out to touch the pale scar upon his inner thigh, a line as white as marble across his honey-colored skin. It was a gash that had healed, some time ago. “Enjolras-” Grantaire started.

“It is imperfection that makes me human,” Enjolras said softly, recalling Grantaire’s words from that night in the workshop.

Grantaire shook his head, convinced Enjolras couldn’t possibly be just human, when his soul was handcrafted by Aphrodite herself. But he realized, as he gazed upon him, the divine magic surrounding Enjolras had faded. His hair merely ruffled in the breeze, rather than floating about his head. His feet were submerged by each wave rolling up the beach, no longer standing upon the water like a god. “You…you _are_ human now,” Grantaire agreed reluctantly, rising with the help of Enjolras’s guiding hands. 

“And I beg you to show me everything of your world,” Enjolras breathed. “Everything I have never seen outside of your shop.”

“Yes, yes,” Grantaire nodded eagerly, his heart soaring as he squeezed Enjolras’s hands in his own. “I will.”

Enjolras threw his arms around his neck and kissed him, and though Grantaire was cold and wet from the sea, Enjolras’s skin was warm and dry, as if he had been bathing in the sun. Grantaire smiled through their kiss, and ran his hands over Enjolras’s miraculously warm human body, no longer leaning on him for support. His lithe, golden limbs were strong, and steady, and balanced, just the way Grantaire had always imagined. There was nothing to mourn, no loss that all trace of the sculpture was left behind, for all of it led to this, this gift of life Aphrodite had granted the two of them. And Enjolras, he knew, was far more beautiful in rich, full, abundant color, a beauty he could never have captured in stone.

“Let us go home,” Grantaire said as they drew apart for breath. “And we will start our life together.”

“It has already begun,” Enjolras amended, taking his hand and leading him from the sea, out onto the sand. 

They climbed back into the cart and drove home to the workshop, Enjolras with the travel blanket draped across his bare shoulders, Grantaire letting the mule set the pace now there was no hurry. With Enjolras awake, and eyes open, he gazed at the quarry curiously as they rode past, a faint recognition on his face. But neither of them spoke of it as it disappeared behind them, Grantaire simply at peace, and Enjolras far more interested in the sights along the road ahead as they continued onward.

He was talkative, asking about the olive orchards, and the vineyards, and the fields of horses they passed along the way. “There, is that the city?” Enjolras inquired, pointing as it came into view at the crest of a hill. “Let us go!”

“We will go, when you are dressed,” Grantaire promised, unable to keep from laughing at Enjolras’s confusion.

As they drove on through the pastoral countryside, Enjolras kept one affectionate hand in the crook of Grantaire’s arm while Grantaire held the reins, no longer needing to hold him upright in the cart. Enjolras was alert, and inquisitive, and Grantaire felt so relieved he could hardly believe he was awake. It was a blissful ride, the memory of that morning’s turmoil already falling distant in his mind.

Upon arriving home, he led Mabeuf back to his stall, finally having a chance to feed and water the patient creature. Enjolras picked a pomegranate from the tree and fed the mule from his hand, thanking him for the role he had played in saving Enjolras as well. Then Grantaire began to draw water for the wash basin inside, and Enjolras followed along, back and forth to the well, shadowing his footsteps. “Let me,” Enjolras insisted, when Grantaire sat down to bathe. He helped Grantaire undress, and took the washcloth from him, tenderly scrubbing away the sand and salt from his skin. Grantaire watched in silent wonder as Enjolras ran his hands over his body, naturally mimicking the way Grantaire had moved his own hands over Enjolras’s form each night in the shop. Enjolras attended to him as dutifully as the sculptor had cared for his sculpture, pouring water gently over his head and running his fingers through his dark curls. 

When Grantaire was clean and dry, he found fresh clothing for them both, draping Enjolras in his best chiton. Enjolras seemed unsure, so used to being nude, but Grantaire assured him the outfit suited him just as well, and they went downstairs to eat. Enjolras, for his first meal, indulged in bread and cheese, grapes and fig, and of course, a pomegranate. They ate the sacred fruit together, Grantaire tasting for himself how truly divine the gift from the goddess’s tree really was. After lunch, as Grantaire was cleaning the plates, Enjolras wandered into the workshop, and Grantaire followed after, curious.

Enjolras was silent and still in the center of the shop, gazing upon the marble base where he had stood for so long, now standing empty. Grantaire came up behind him, and placed a reassuring hand upon his back. “What is it?” he asked softly.

Enjolras shook his head mildly. “It is nothing, just…what am I to do now, when you move on to your next sculptures? What shall I do, while you are hard at work?” There was uncertainty in his voice, a longing for purpose.

“Well,” Grantaire started, gazing around the workshop thoughtfully. “I am told I am a good teacher. Perhaps you would like to try your hand at sculpting?” he asked, running a hand down Enjolras’s arm and taking his hand. “Something tells me you’d be a natural.” 

Enjolras turned to him, blushing with a sidelong smile. “Perhaps,” he echoed back, though he seemed pleased. He backed up against the marble base and pushed himself up, sitting on it playfully. “Maybe you could learn something from me, too.”

“I would gladly take anything you wish to teach me,” Grantaire said eagerly, placing his hands on Enjolras’s thighs. “No one else knows marble like you do.” 

“You are rather intimate with it yourself,” Enjolras replied, and pulled him in for a kiss.

The front door to the workshop opened with a creak. Enjolras and Grantaire parted in surprise, both blinking at the daylight flooding in as a shadowed figure came through the doorway. “Sir?”

“Joly?” Grantaire cocked his head.

“O-Oh! I didn’t...I didn’t realize you’d have company! The door was unlocked, sir, I-I just came to check on you,” the apprentice stammered, hurriedly attempting to take hold of the door handle once more. “I’ll leave you be, don’t worry, I’ll just be go-” But he stopped, distracted as he noticed the boy who sat beside Grantaire, and recognition dawned upon his face. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Is...is...this...?” he asked, walking back into the workshop and pointing at Enjolras.

Grantaire swallowed nervously.

“Is this him?” Joly finished. “Is this your special client, Grantaire?”

“My...my client?” Grantaire repeated, bewildered.

“The one you’ve worked day and night on that sculpture for,” Joly said in exasperation, shaking his head. “Your ‘personal project,’ Grantaire, you should have _told_ me what this was all about! I didn’t know you were wooing someone.” He came closer, taking an analytical look at Enjolras’s face. “I hope you’re happy with my master’s work,” he said to Enjolras. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Uh, oh, oh yes!” Enjolras nodded, catching on. “Grantaire did a marvelous job, I’m very pleased with how he sculpted me. In the sculpture.”

“I took it to him last night,” Grantaire added, casually leaning against Enjolras’s base to help conceal it from view. “He was so happy, he, uh-” 

“Decided to accept Grantaire’s courtship,” Enjolras concluded, putting his hand in Grantaire’s. “I really fell in love with his handiwork,” he added in a low voice, squeezing Grantaire’s fingers.

Grantaire couldn’t help but blush, biting his lip to hold back a smile. 

“Well, it’s wonderful to meet you, after all this time. I’m Joly,” the apprentice said, nodding his greeting.

“Enjolras,” Enjolras nodded back. “Thank you, for taking care of him, when he could not do it himself.”

“It was no trouble of mine. We just need to make sure he never works that hard again.” Joly waved a scolding finger at Grantaire.

Grantaire quickly shook his head. 

“He won’t,” Enjolras agreed. “We’ll be here to help him.”

“That’s why I came by. Just wanted to make sure you finished up, and everything was all right. No disasters while I was away, or anything like that.”

“None whatsoever,” Grantaire said smoothly, and embraced his apprentice with a knowing smile. 

“Listen,” Joly continued as they parted. “I-I saw your friend Courfeyrac, down at the agora yesterday. He said to pass on a message. He didn’t want to bother or you, or rather, he wasn’t sure what sort of mood you were in but if you were wanting to come out, if you were willing to see your friends again, there is a gathering at Marius’s house tonight.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. With all that had come to pass, he had forgotten how his last conversation with Courfeyrac had ended. He knew he had to make amends as soon as possible. “Thank you,” he said gratefully, clasping his apprentice’s hand. “Thank you, Joly. For this news, and for everything you do for me.”

That evening, Grantaire walked down the hill hand in hand with Enjolras, destined for the city. Enjolras, wearing a tightly bound pair of Grantaire’s oversized sandals, was delighted by the view as they came upon the metropolis, the streets buzzing here and there with nightlife. He wanted to see everything, pointing out the brightly-lit theater, the pipe music coming from a tavern, a troupe of dancers whirling about in the street. “Wait until we come in the daytime,” Grantaire teased. “When all the city is awake. You’ll see everything tomorrow, when we go to the agora and buy you a wardrobe of your own.” Though Grantaire’s earnings were more than modest, he couldn’t help but want to spend it all on Enjolras. “And once we have everything you need, we will go wherever your heart desires.”

“Then I cannot wait for tomorrow to come,” Enjolras replied blissfully, holding his hand tighter.

They soon came upon Marius’s residence as they reached the street of wealthier family households, passing through the archway and ascending the grand front steps of the house. Grantaire cautiously knocked upon the door, feeling a little nervous, and a little guilty, over his long absence. A moment later he heard footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal Courfeyrac in a fancy blue chiton. His eyes widened upon seeing Grantaire, surprised he had shown up 

“Courfeyrac, I wanted to apologize,” Grantaire said quickly. “About how things ended the last time we-”

“Nevermind that.” Courfeyrac shoved Grantaire aside dismissively as he noticed Enjolras standing there behind him. “Who is this?” he asked, looking awestruck.

“This,” Grantaire said with growing confidence, easing into a smile, “is Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac looked from Enjolras to Grantaire, and back again, and then slowly understood, his expression faltering, face growing pale. “E-Enjolras? _The_ Enjolras?”

“Yes,” Grantaire confirmed with pride. “The Enjolras.” 

“The boy from your-” Courfeyrac stopped himself and scratched his head. “Well whaddya know?” He held out his hand. “I’m Courfeyrac,” he said, holding his hand out to Enjolras. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Enjolras took his hand, though he seemed pleasantly confused. “And you as well.”

“Look how happy you’ve made this man,” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, pinching Grantaire’s face as he noticed his smile. “Thank the gods you’ve arrived, I was beginning to worry about him!” Courfeyrac released Grantaire carelessly and turned, opening the front door wide. “Hey, look here!” he called. “Grantaire has brought us a special guest! Come and meet Enjolras!” Cosette, Marius, and Jehan all looked up from where they sat talking and eating, and came to the door, excitement catching on as they recalled that familiar name, and understood who it really was that Grantaire had brought along.

Cosette caught Grantaire’s arm as they welcomed the two of them inside. “I believe in dreams,” she whispered. “I believed in you. I knew you would find him.”

“I don’t think I truly believed it myself,” Grantaire whispered back. “But Aphrodite had something planned for me all along.”

“She always does. Love finds us all, in the most unpredictable ways,” Cosette grinned, and joined Marius in greeting their new guest.

Later, after a night filled with feasting and merriment, and a creative retelling of how they’d met upon the beach that day, Enjolras and Grantaire returned home to the workshop. Grantaire, pleasantly warmed by wine, went to the kitchen and took the offering plate in hand. He showed Enjolras how to slice and serve the fruit just so, with pomegranate, apple, and fig for the evening fare. He drizzled them with honey and put a drop on Enjolras’s lips for good measure, Enjolras licking it off playfully before Grantaire stole a kiss. Then Enjolras took the plate from Grantaire’s hands, and climbed the stairs ahead of him, perfectly balanced on his graceful, steady legs, while Grantaire followed behind with the lamp.

They both knelt together in front of the low table by Grantaire’s bedside, Enjolras setting down the plate and Grantaire arranging the little Aphrodite sculpture just so. With hands clasped, they bowed their heads and prayed silently, enjoying the sound of each other’s breath as they thanked the goddess each in their own way in the darkness. And in time, they rose, and carefully undressed one another, Grantaire lifting Enjolras’s delicate crown from his head and placing it beside the offering. Enjolras shook out his golden hair, gleaming silvery-white now in the moonlight, and smiled as they fell into bed, Grantaire running his strong sculptor’s hands over Enjolras’s smooth, shapely figure, crafted with patience, and passion, and love.


End file.
